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Book ___:________ 

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COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



Friends 
O'Mine 



A book of 
Poems 
and Stories 

by 

Margaret E. Sangster, Jr. 




1914 



The Christian Herald, New York 



531 



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■ M^lx'C 



COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY 
THE CHRISTIAN HERALD 



DEC il 1914 

DC!.A387SS5 



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TO MY MOTHER 

WHO CARES FOR ALL OF MY WORK BECAUSE IT IS MINE 
I LOVINGLY DEDICATE MY FIRST BOOK 



PREFACE 

When I was a tiny girl I used to think that "Pref- 
ace" stood for "Peter Riley Eats Fish and Catches 
Eels." Later, I thought that the preface of a book was 
a thing to be avoided; but now I realize that reading 
a book without glancing at the Foreword is like talking 
to a person you have never been introduced to. 

Some of the articles and poems in this book have 
been used in The Christian Herald and three of them 
"The Mother of a Hero," "The Long Lonely Way," 
and "Good Friday," have been pubhshed in the New 
York Times. The majority, however, are new and 
have never before appeared in print. 

I have always looked forward eagerly to writing my 
first book, but now that it is written, I hardly know 
what to say to you about it. I only hope that you will 
like the little bits of song and story, for they are about 
real people and real happenings, with my dreams and 
imaginings tucked in. 

Sincerely your friend, 

Margaret E. Sangster, Jr. 



ARTICLES AND STORIES 



PAGE 

ATalkofWar 2 

The Blue Bowl 9 

About Ideals 16 

A Springtime Fancy 23 

In the Shadow of the 

Mesquite 30 

Smiles and Tears 42 

The Gipsy Spirit 48 

When Trouble Comes 54 

From Twelve to One 59 

The Onlooker 64 

Attractiveness 73 

A Song of Love 78 

At the Dying of the Year . 84 

"Knee-Deep in June". ... 92 

In Search of Vacation Land 98 

Only a Dog 103 

Commencement Days Ill 

In Defense of the Modern 

Girl 117 



PAGE 

The Moving Finger 124 

The Lady in the Veil 129 

The Spice of Life 139 

Life's Signboards 145 

Flowers to the Dead 152 

The Punishment 158 

By Love 171 

During a Shower 177 

"An, You ha' Seen What I 

ha' Seen" 184 

The Coming of "Mary 

Christmas" 190 

Adventure and Achieve- 
ment 198 

The Christmas Spirit 204 

Good Intentions 209 

The Sleeping Princess 216 

Following the Star 222 

The Eve o' Christmas 227 



POEMS 



The Beginning 1 

The Ballad of the Birdman 5 

Machree 7 

In Harbor 12 

King of the Year 14 

The Long Lonely Way .... 20 

The Indian Raid 22 

My Visitors 27 

To a Withered Rose 28 



The Sufferers 29 

The Footsteps on the Stair 38 
The Ballad of the Cold- 

Hearted Princess 39 

La Marseillaise 45 

Mill Children 47 

The Romany Lullaby 52 

Good Friday 53 

The Lonely Heart 57 



Vlll 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

The Firelight and You .... 58 
The Egyptian Lace-Woman 62 

To Be a Child in May 63 

Progress 70 

Trust 71 

A Melody of Easter 76 

Smile 77 

The Question 82 

Black-Eyed Susans 83 

The Ballad of Happiness . . 88 

In Memoriam 91 

A Wish 96 

The Mother of a Hero 97 

Lad o' Mine 101 

The King and the Beggar . 102 

The Unreturning 108 

The Kiddies' Heaven 109 

Valedictory 115 

Mother's Day 116 

The Fairy Doctor 120 

The Homecoming 122 

A Message of Faith 123 

Decoration Day 127 

Think of These 128 

The Blind Chief's Lament. 137 
The Peace Conference .... 138 

After the Storm 142 

The Middle West 143 

Jack o' Lantern 144 

Peace 148 

Betty's Bonnet 150 

Calling Etiquette 151 



PAGE 

A Prayer 156 

Her Blessing 157 

A Memory 167 

Her Father 168 

The Court Fool 169 

His Answer 175 

Grateful Hearts 176 

The Wandering Boys 181 

"Laugh and the World 

Laughs with You" 182 

Thanksgiving Day 183 

The Postman 187 

The Afterwards 188 

Autumn's Crown 189 

A Sonnet of the First 

Christmas 196 

The Homeless Children ... 197 

The Angel's Message 202 

Dreams, Is It? 203 

The Answer 207 

My DoUie 208 

The Terror of the Sea 213 

Waiting for Santy 214 

The Sailor's Mother 215 

Be Brave! 220 

The Baby's Smile 221 

Winter's Jewel Case 225 

Forgiven 226 

My World 233 

The End 234 

A Christmas Song 235 

L'Envoi 236 



FRIENDS a MINE 



THE BEGINNING 

Rosy glow against the dawn, 

As another day is born; 
Will you wake with cheerful eyes, 

Looking on the cloudless skies? 
Will your smile be sweet and bright. 

As you rise to greet the light? 
Ah! another day is born, 

Rosy glow against the dawn. 

Sunny gleams against the day — 

Will your tasks be work, or play? 
Will you lift a brother's load, 

As he stumbles down the road? 
Will you press a sister's hand 

Telhng her you understand? 
Will your tasks be work or play? 

Sunny gleams against the day. 



A TALK OF WAR 

In times of war it's hard, I think, to write of other 
things. The summer, and the flowers, and the httle 
bird that sings all fade away into a land of stories and 
of dreams, and everywhere the echo rings from battle 
prayers and screams. I say the echo, but I mean the 
sympathy that starts and creeps forth quite unbidden 
from the center of our hearts; and the morning calm is 
broken by the newsboy's piercing yell, as he hurries by 
us shouting of the papers he must sell. 

We read the news in headlines that are many inches 
high, we murmur at the milhons that are called upon 
to die. We wonder if the forts can stand the heavy 
balls of lead, and shudder for the mothers that are 
waiting home — with dread. We call the air-ships 
"funny" and we call the tactics "queer." We wonder 
at the fires that have made the towns so drear. We 
quarrel and we argue as to who shall win the fight; we 
change our minds at any time throughout the day and 
night. And yet with all the fussing in our work and in 
our play, we reahze that the battles rage some thousand 
miles away; and though we show our fighting thoughts 
we really know full well that seas are stretched be- 
tween us and the roaring shot and shell. 

I walked along a city street not many days ago, and 
as I walked I heard the sound of columns marching 
slow. I hurried for I thought perhaps a regiment was 
out, but no! I saw a single line — just twenty men — 
about. Their faces round were flushed with heat, 
their eyes so filled with dread, were fastened on a bat- 
tered flag they carried at their head. And yet with 
reverence and pride they sang their native song — as 



A TALK OF WAR 3 

though they waited for a death that softly crept along 
behind them in the sunlight and the shadows of the 
street. I waited till the echo of their heavy marching 
feet had died away; and then I hurried home with 
sullen fears, it seemed that I had mingled in a place of 
blood and tears. 

I often stopped to wonder, in the days of long ago, 
how people felt in Europe when our wars were raging 
so. I used to think that they, perhaps, were stopping in 
their toil, to watch the witches' cauldron that the heat 
had made to boil. I wondered how in times of strife 
the folk could work away — without a constant watch- 
ing for the dawning of the day when Peace would be 
proclaimed abroad, and foes would all be one — a land 
of brothers living in a country filled with sun. And yet 
today we sing and dance and froUc as before, though all 
the universe, it seems, is bathed in fevered war. 

When I was but a tiny child I always used to play, 
in autumn, with the falling leaves that we would rake 
away, in piles so high and deep that they could hide me 
all from sight. . . . I'd jump on them throughout the 
day, but in the chilly night, I'd call some grown-up 
person who would strike a tiny match, and hold it 
cupped within his hand until the flame would catch. 
A leaf — a small and broken one — would shrivel up 
and die, and yet a spark would flutter to another one 
near by. A tongue of hght would scurry all along with 
snake-like speed, and then at last the fire with its aw- 
ful, deadly greed, would coil about throughout the pile 
with burning siren hold, until the brown was swallowed 
in a wall of molten gold. And as my eyes with rapture 
great were starting from my head, the gold would 
turn to steel and then to ashes — gray and dead. And 
where a pile of leaves had stood, a bulwark four feet 
tall, a crumpled little heap would lie of wreckage, — 
that was all. And somehow, in my baby way, though 
I had loved the flame, I felt that when the leaves were 



4 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

gone it was an awful shame. And though I knew 
another day would bring them flying down, I knew 
that not a single thing — no ruling monarch's crown — 
would bring the leaves that had been burned back in 
a tidy heap; and thinking so my eyes would fall, and 
I would be asleep. 

And yet in war, the men are leaves, and fighting is 
the flame — and all the waste of all the world is fraught 
with deadly shame. And as they lie in blood-stained 
heaps, no matter how we strive we know that nothing — 
even prayers — can bring them back ahve. And 
though we know that other men and other boys will 
come, it does not ease the heartache in the muffled 
funeral drum. And though we cannot trace the hand 
that caused the war to start, it does not stop the 
breaking of a white-haired mother's heart. 

The books of history are stained with crimson finger 
marks, and all the maps that deck our walls were torn 
by human sharks; the ground that makes a garden 
fair was covered once with dead, and hly buds are 
blooming where some conquered hero bled. We speak 
the names of Generals great with feeling and with awe 
because they lived some years ago, and died at last 
before we lived ourselves; and we will cheer at battle 
grounds and towers; and we will build a marble shaft 
and cover it with flowers. And yet in many other 
lands they need us as we play — for dying men and 
boys are making history today. 

In times of war, it's hard, I think, to write of any- 
thing except the talk of wounds, and guns, and tears 
that blind and sting. Oh! Men of Peace, and women 
brave with children on your knee, and boys and girls 
whose eyes are wide — look o'er the raging sea! And 
if you have it in your hearts, I ask that you will pray, 
that war, with all its death be kept a thousand miles 
away. 



THE BALLAD OF THE BIRDMAN 

A French aeroplane with a single man in it, swept 
through a German balloon, ripping open the bag, and 
killing twenty-fwe soldiers. — News Item. 

High, high, in the clouded sky, 
With the mist and the waking sun; 
They fought and died for a country's pride, 
And the nations counted, "One!" 

A huge balloon with its fighting crew, 

Hung over the country fair; 
And bombs dropped down on a peaceful town, 

And crashed through the summer air. 
The people groaned, and the people wept. 

At the wreck of the country side; 
But they crept abroad with their humble hoard. 

And, "The glory of War!" they cried. 

An aeroplane with its slender wings. 

Swept up through the silver clouds. 
That drifted high in the summer sky, 

And hung on the sun like shrouds. 
But the huge balloon with its fighting crew. 

Crept on in its awful way; 
It did not know of the darting foe, 

But the earth-folk muttered, "Pray!" 

A dart — a flash of the slender wings, 

And battered, and hmp, and torn; 
The birdman flies through the summer skies, 

To die in the early dawn. 



6 FRIENDS O' MINE 

His craft had swept through the huge balloon, 

With the sound of a rending seam; 
And, "Our foes are killed!" All the people thrilled, 

And, "This is the first!" they scream. 

High, high, in the clouded sky, 
With the mist and the waking sun; 
They fought and died for a country's pride, 
And the nations counted, "One!" 



MACHREE 

Shure, I'm thinkin' of ye darlin' when the purple dusk 
is falHn' 
And th' smell o' peat is creepin' through th' little 
cabin door, 
And across the lonely meadow I can hear yer voice, 
a-calhn', 
And telhn' me to come to ye, to leave ye never more. 
Ah! Mavourneen, I can see yer smile, can see yer hair 
a-shinin', 
And in the deepest shadows I can see yer eyes a-glow, 
Acushla, can ye hear me? For my very soul is pinin' 
To ask ye if ye love me — and to hear ye tell me so! 

Shure, it's cold I am one minute when I wonder if ye're 
carin'. 
And the next I'm hot with fever, and I'm shakin' 
fair with dread; 
And I try to think of kissin', but I shiver with my 
darin', 
And my very eyes are hopeless as I shake my weary 
head. 
Oh! can ye hear me heart, Aroon, across the stretch 
of heather? 
It's beatin' for ye, tellin' ye what tongue could never 
say — 
I'm wishin' we could wander through a paradise to- 
gether. 
That I could make yer life as bright as one unclouded 
day. 



8 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

Shure, Machree, the dark is creepin' o'er the sea, and I 
am prayin', 
That ye'll think o' me a bit, perhaps, when night 
time settles down ; 
And my love is sweepin' toward ye on the wind, and it 
is sayin'. 
My heart is waitin' for yer step upon the dirt so 
brown — 
If I could hold ye in my arms and feel yer lips a-pres- 
sin' 
My own, and know ye cared for me, and hear yer 
sweet voice say 
My name. Ah! Colleen, have ye got no single way of 
guessin' 
That I'd lay me down and die a thousand deaths for 
ye today! 



THE BLUE BOWL 

When I was a tiny kiddie, I went into a Sunday 
school library to borrow a book — a book full of drag- 
ons, and fair ladies, and brave knights. But when I 
tiptoed up to the lady in charge and made known my 
desire, she looked rather surprised until all at once her 
face brightened and she handed me an old-fashioned, 
worn little volume. 

"This," she informed me with a smile typical of Sun- 
day school librarians, "is a nice story for little girls." 

I clasped the story to my heart, and rushed home to 
a nice tight spot between a short squatty table and a 
long, thin bookcase, which I called my reading-room. 
Then I began to explore into the story. 

Trustingly I opened the book; happily I began to 
read. To this day I do not remember many important 
things about the story, the name of it, or the author, 
or the illustrations; but I think I shall be able to tell 
you the plot fairly well. Here it is: 

There was once a painfully good little girl named 
(I think) Rosamund. She always did what her mother 
asked her to, and never found fault, or asked questions, 
or disobeyed. But one day a serpent crept into her 
Eden in the shape of some money — to be used in the 
purchase of shoes. 

Rosamund started on her shopping expedition, prim 
little skirts unwrinkled, prim httle mouth pursed up, 
prim little eyes straight ahead. Then suddenly she 
saw a druggist's shop. And in the window of the shop 
she saw a glass jar, apparently of a wonderful blue color. 
Perhaps Rosamund said: "Retro me, Satanas," and 
perhaps she forgot it; but to make a long story short, 
she went into the shop and spent her shoe money for 
the bowl. 



10 FRIENDS O' MINE 

Days went by and the child's slippers grew shabby 
and full of holes. But she was happy. She still had the 
beautiful blue thing that continued to dazzle her eyes. 
Then one day the expected disaster happened: Rosa- 
mund tipped over the bowl and the cover came off. 
Out ran a blue Hquid and the bowl became just Hke an 
ordinary glass jar. 

Whereupon, amid weeping and waiHng, Rosamund 
resolved never to spend her money foolishly again. 

At this point I hurled the book across the room and 
lifted my eyebrows disdainfully. I can remember that 
I thought deep in my heart, what a silly little girl Rosa- 
mund had been. Why, she might have made more 
color for the bowl by asking cook for some blueing 
mixed with water. Or she might have filled the jar 
with the pink liquid made by combining red ink and 
water. And yet she had cried and written morals at 
the end of her book. 

At times I still think of Rosamund, and I still have 
a not very exalted opinion of her brain power. Have 
you ever known any Rosamunds in real life? I have. 

There was a girl that went to school with me when 
I was in the academic department. We were taking 
up a very stiff course — Latin and French and geome- 
try, and many other things. This girl could have been 
a good scholar, if she had wanted to. But she never 
thought of studying until the night before an ex- 
amination. Then she would come to me and say: 

"I know that I won't pass this exam. What shall 
I do?" 

"Cram hard to-night," I generally advised, but she 
would always shake her head and say: 

"I know what I will do. I will pray this evening 
that I may pass my examinations." 

Of course she never passed. She never will if she 
follows out her rather queer and impractical working 
plan. Of course her faith in prayer is very wonderful, 



THE BLUE BOWL 11 

but prayer alone cannot make a girl understand the 
geometry that she has never studied. 

Another girl that I know had a very pretty new dress. 
She wore it to several places and then one day she caught 
it on a sharp nail and tore a long jagged rip in it. 

Several of us met at a tea party the next afternoon 
and she began to tell us about the disaster. 

"Such a pretty dress!" she mourned. "And now 
it is all ruined! I wanted to wear it to-day, but of 
course now I can never use it again." 

It was then that the practical one of our group spoke 
up: 

"Silly!" she exclaimed, "I don't see why you can't 
use it. Put a new panel down the front — you can 
easily match the material. Why, it will be as good 
as new!" 

We all turned to look at the owner of the dress. Her 
face was flushed a little bit and her eyes were downcast. 

"Why," she murmured, "I never thought of that." 

She was another Rosamund and she lacked the in- 
genuity to refill her blue bowl. 

I saw a funny cartoon in one of the papers a few 
days ago. In seven successive pictures it showed a 
man — one of the terrible specimens of humanity that 
cartoonists delight in — telhng a silent but interested 
family the terrible symptoms of a cold that he was 
suffering from. In the eighth picture a small woman 
was shown, speaking to him as he sat disconsolately in 
an arm chair. 

"Why," she asked him, with an awful directness, 
*'why don't you do something to cure it?" 

Oh, the number of Rosamunds that I see every day 
in the city, in my home suburb, in the shops, every- 
where! For there are times when the whole world 
seems thoughtless, and troubled, as if everyone had 
spilled the joy and light and color from the blue bowl 
of life and forgotten to refill it. 



IN HARBOR 

The harbor bell is ringing o'er the waters dark and 
stormy, 
The fog is thick and gloomy, while the rain is fine 
and fast; 
There are icy floods that check us, as we struggle 
through the water, 
And the tearing of the wind-storm can be felt in 
every mast. 
Oh, the heaven black before us, and the awful clouds 
above us. 
And the stars that should be shining — sending down 
a little light. 
And the silence that is bringing Hke the sound of angels 
singing 
The loud and cheerful ringing of the harbor bell at 
night. 

The darkness is around us and the hail is in our faces, 
The waves are hungry — hungry as a starving, 
savage king; 
The captain speaks a warning as he gazes at the sky- 
line, 
For the gloom may hold some terror that a moment's 
speed will bring. 
Oh! the forms that play below us in the thick and 
troubled waters. 
Oh! the rolhng of the porpoise and the flashing of 
the shark! 
But softly through the blowing comes a gleam, and we 
are knowing. 
That the harbor light is glowing through the terror 
and the dark. 



IN HARBOR 13 

When our time on earth grows shorter, and the way 
seems cold and cheerless, 
When the sun is slowly setting o'er hfe's dark and 
troubled wave. 
When the terrors are around us, and the sky is hanging 
heavy. 
When the tempest is upon us and our hands are 
numb to save. 
When the world hes all behind us in the coldness of 
the gloaming, 
And heavy doubts are crowding fast, through all the 
chill of night; 
May the Master call, "Cease fearing, for your beaten 
craft is nearing. 
The brightness and the cheering of the glowing 
harbor Hght." 



KING OF THE YEAR 



The New Year stood on the earth alone 

At the dawn of a bitter day, 
And he gathered his robe about his feet 

In a petulant baby way. 
And he said: "I am king of this fine domain, 

Of the bustle, and whirr, and hum; 
But here I stand on the earth alone. 

Why do not my subjects come?" 

II 
Then a bent form came to the tiny feet. 

And bowed with a weary smile: 
"I am worn," said he, "and my work is done; 

Praise God, I may rest awhile! 
But, child, this world is a queer old place. 

For nothing is fair and new; 
But I wish you luck!" said the grand Old Year; 

And he faded away from view. 

Ill 

A strong man paused by the lonely spot 

Where the New Year stood in the snow. 
"I am one of your subjects, sire," quoth he, 

"And my way is. long to go. 
But I pledge a sword to your work and play, 

And I give you my heart and breath." 
"Ah, who are you?" asked the Baby Year. 

And the stranger answered, "Death." 



KING OF THE YEAR 15 

IV 

A chubby boy with a merry smile 

Came whistling down from high. 
"I am come,", cried he, "from the throne of God; 

A subject of yours am I. 
I give you my arrows sharp and swift, 

And a smile from the sky above." 
"Ah! what is your name?" asked the small New Year; 

And the cherub answered, "Love." 



Then the New Year stood in the snow alone, 

"And I may be king," said he. 
"I may rule over the earth and sky. 

Over the air and sea; 
But two rule ever with me," he said, 

"For the merciful God above 
Has made them kings of the universe. 

And their names are Death and Love." 



ABOUT IDEALS 

** So the Prince set Cinderella upon his horse and took 
her away to his fairy kingdom. And when they ar- 
rived he put a crown of gold upon her head, and led 
her to a silver throne. And so they were married and 
lived happily ever after!" 

The child of seven shut the green and gold book 
softly, almost reverently, and as the gilt-edged pages 
fell silently together she saw pictures before her half- 
shut eyes: the sweet, demure little maiden in the 
peasant's hut, the radiant lady in the ball-room, and 
the gracious princess clad in ermine and jewels. And 
the child sighed. 

"My!" she whispered to herself, "if I were only the 
princess." And she began to dream again, only this 
time she herself was the heroine. 

"Let me see," she murmured — for she had a little 
habit of thinking aloud — "I'll have black, black curls; 
and violet eyes; and an alabaster brow." (This de- 
scription, of course, did not tally with the chubby baby 
face and straight little braids and round eyes which she 
really possessed.) "And the prince will be tall and 
dark, with a curly mustache and big brown eyes, and 
peaches-and-cream looking cheeks. And when we get 
married we will sit on lovely thrones with cushions, 
and look at each other, and eat ice cream all day long. 
Won't it be lovely!" 

The child put the book carefully back on the shelf 
and went to the nearest mirror. Back at her looked 
the solemn eyes; unwinking, grave. And then she 



ABOUT IDEALS 17 

turned away and went to play with her dolls. For 
deep-rooted in her heart was the fearful thought that 
never, never would she look like a princess. And then, 
how could the prince — the tall, dark, gallant prince, 
who waited somewhere for her to grow up — marry 
her? 

Here let me confess it: I was that little girl, and the 
silken-clad prince was my first ideal! I dreamed of 
him by night and talked to him by day, and played 
with his imaginary image that I saw at dusk in the fire- 
light. And when I was hurt or offended, I would sit 
in a dark corner with tears trickling down the sides of 
my very small nose and think of the time when I would 
ride away with him on his prancing charger, much to 
the discomfort of my unromantic family. But one day 
I awoke to the fact that I had grown tired of him; that 
the idea of a princess's life on a shining throne seemed 
rather dull. And though I cried and worried over him, 
he never came back again with just the same charm. 
For he had served his purpose and lasted quite a few 
years. 

Then, one summer, a new vision dawned upon my 
small and rather empty horizon. He was dark and 
slender hke the prince. But, oh, with a difference, and 
he was alive! I will never forget the first day that I 
saw him. I was standing on the porch in a stiffly 
starched white dress, and my hair was tied back in 
two tight knots (so tight that my eyebrows must have 
had a slightly Oriental look), and caught up with enor- 
mous blue bows. The new "ideal" came up the path 
between two rows of stubby trees and my eyes grew 
round with excitement. But he only glanced non- 
chalantly in my direction and said in a drawhng, ob- 
viously affected tone: "Hello, kid!" 

I grew scarlet up to my tight hair and thrust my 
fmger into my mouth, and ran to my mother; for I 
was only ten. 



18 FRIENDS O' MINE 

I cannot remember ever speaking to him; but I sat 
and looked at him whenever he was busy, though he 
never noticed me except to pull my hair, and make me 
blush. And when he went away I was lonely and 
missed his step on the stair, and his drawling voice in 
the halls, and his teasing. Several years ago I saw him 
again, but he seemed, somehow, very different, very 
dull and sordid. Not that he had changed; but my 
ideal had grown larger. 

When I was about fifteen, I had vague thoughts of 
wearing long dresses, and putting my hair up. I be- 
gan to study queer subjects and go to football games. 
Stories by writers with marvelous imagination took 
the place of my fairy books. And with these changes, 
another ideal became enthroned in my heart. He was 
not patterned after any particular type; he was a com- 
posite of the 'varsity football player with the character- 
istics of a fashionable clothing-store advertisement 
added. I seemed to see him — when I shut my eyes — 
dressed in a uniform, on a highly-pohshed floor, in a 
dress suit, clothed in football garments, and also at- 
tired in cap and gown with his diploma in his hand; 
but his face was always the same, and no difference of 
expression ever showed in his wonderful eyes. How- 
ever, I liked him, and when he began to fade away 
from my mind I was truly sorry. 

Now, I have a new ideal. I do not know what he 
looks like or what kind of clothes he wears. (He is 
neither a prince nor a football hero. But he likes the 
things I Hke, he measures up rigidly to the mental yard- 
stick, and he looks straight into your face with clear 
eyes when he talks to you.) I may never meet him, 
but he will always be enthroned somewhere in a little 
unforgetting corner of my mind. 

Always have your ideal! Never feel that you could 
care for a man whom you do not respect. Build up a 
character that is real to you; a man who measures up 



ABOUT IDEALS 19 

at least fairly to your standard in mental, moral, and 
spiritual things. 

There is a little fable that is in a way symbohcal. 
A young Greek sculptor once made a beautiful figure 
of marble. He carved it and worked over it, and under 
his hands it grew into a maiden of marvelous beauty. 
As she grew more charming day by day, he grew to 
love her very dearly, cold stone though she was. 

At last the statue was finished. The sculptor adored ; 
then, despairing, he went to the temple and prayed 
that the faith in his artistic creation might be justified. 
Sadly, disconsolately, he turned to his lonely studio. 
But as he glanced in at the door he saw a wonderful 
sight. A red beam from the setting sun fell across the 
face of the statue, making it look very beautiful, hke 
the face of a young girl gloriously alive. Hoping, yet 
fearing, he stepped into the room and touched the 
hand, and lo! it was soft and warm to the touch, and 
the hps smiled down at him as the figure stepped from 
her pedestal. 

Though merely a fable, it teaches us a lesson : Carve 
your ideal in good material; put the best work of the 
heart and mind and soul into it, and some day your 
labor will be rewarded and you will discover that you 
have builded well; that you worked in marble and not 
in common clay. 



THE LONG LONELY WAY 

Three hundred thousand children died from neglect 
and want during 1913 

A TIRED little army, three hundred thousand children, 

They creep along together in the middle of the night ; 
And their shadows white as sea foam, can be seen 
throughout the forest. 
Where the trees are thin and shaken, and the stars 
send down their light. 
Oh, the little faces tearful, and the baby hands so tiny. 
And the dimpled feet that falter as they walk through 
ice and snow! 
Ah, the world is cold behind them, and the warmest 
moonbeams blind them. 
For the little hearts are broken, and the way is long 
to go. 

There are rivers, fierce and roaring, caked with icy bits 
that sparkle. 
There are beasts that roam the woodland dales, and 
snakes that fill the plain; 
There are owls in the treetops, and the whip-poor-will 
is calhng. 
Calling to the souls that wander and will ne'er come 
back again; 
There are pitfalls sharp and sudden, in the darkness of 
the highway. 
There are rocks that bruise the little forms that 
stumble as they creep; 
And the starHght's faded glory is reflected red and gory, 
On a sunken well of poison that is cruel, wide and deep. 



THE LONG LONELY WAY 21 

Oh, the world is selfish, thoughtless; so the little souls 
must wander 
To another place more beautiful — the paradise of 
love. 
See, they creep along together, and their shadows white 
are reaching 
To the angel wings before them, and the Father up 
above. 
But the sound of weeping, wailing, can be heard o'er 
empty cradles. 
And the mothers back upon the earth are praying 
soft and slow; 
For the little hearts are tender and the httle limbs are 
slender, 
And the way, God, is terrible and long indeed to go. 



THE INDIAN RAID 

Harsh is the call of the wind to my ears, 

Here on the marshes; 
Shrill are the screams that my aching soul hears. . 

Under the larches 
Shadows are creeping with velvet soft feet — 
And in the darkness I hear my heart beat — 
Are they advancing or do they retreat? 

Here on the marshes. 

Thick is the fog that hangs heavy and dead 

Over the marshes; 
Dull are my eyes, and my feet are like lead. 

And my throat parches. 
Bright gleams a torch on a body of brown. 
Slinking away with a feathery crown ; 
Down on my knees I am crouching — far down — 

Still are the marshes. 

Dawn faintly glimmers — a bird note is rising 

Shrill on the marshes; 
Is it a signal that sounds up, surprising, 

Where the surf washes? 
Ah! for a mortal to whom I could speak, 
If I could whisper a word — or could shriek. . . . 
God! they are coming — I hear the steps creak! 

Death on the marshes. 



A SPRINGTIME FANCY 

Easter time lay over the land — a time of radiance 
and music, of birds and flowers. Hearts beat happily 
in tune to the joy of an awakening spring, and the 
golden lily-hearts were reflected in every smile. 

It was Easter time, the time of youth and bright- 
ness and resurrection — hardly the time for Weariness 
to visit the girl; but with head bent toward her he 
was leaning over her chair, talking softly, persuasively 
in her ear. 

"You're tired," he told her as his old feet (for 
Weariness is as old as the world itself) beat a tattoo 
on the worn floor. "You're bored, you want some- 
thing new." 

"I'm tired," murmured the girl gazing dreamily 
into space — for she did not see Weariness standing 
before her — "I'm bored. I want something different 
from this work-a-day world." 

Weariness sat down in the chair and prepared for 
a comfortable chat. He had made a good beginning 
and he meant to improve his time. 

"You dislike everybody, even the strangers on the 
street," he prompted with a thin-lipped, disagreeable 
smile. 

"I dishke everybody that I know," said the girl 
with a defiant stamp of her foot. "I dislike every- 
body with not one exception." 

"You're doing well," he commented with a chuckle. 
"I'm proud of you, girl! You're tired — you're 
bored. You dislike everybody with no exception. 
Perhaps nobody hkes you." 



24 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

"Nobody loves me," echoed the girl; "not a soul. 
If I were starving nobody would help me! If I were 
freezing nobody would help me." 

"Unpopular girl," said Weariness happily, looking 
across the room at the bright hair and pretty features 
of his companion. "To look at you no one would 
imagine it. Your eyes are blue and your hair isn't 
gray — it's young hair. Isn't it sad that your life 
should be so tragic?" 

" It is sad." Again the girl stamped her foot. ".It's 
more than sad; it's terrible. I guess you'd think so 
too, if you were me." And she started to cry, head on 
folded arms, shoulders shaking convulsively. "I'm 
tired," she sobbed. 

Outside the sun glowed over a world of flowers and 
springtime. Inside, the same sun, grown dusty, fell 
on the crying girl and the cynical, world-old figure 
seated before her. 

The door opened softly and a breath of air — cool, 
bracing air — stole in. The girl, head in arm, did not 
notice it. But Weariness raised his eyes to the open- 
ing door and sniffed at the freshness of the breeze. 
And as he gazed a figure came in with brisk, quick 
step — the figure of a young man, lithe, and hand- 
some, and smiling. A white fillet bound his crisp 
black hair to his head, and a pair of white-winged 
sandals clung to his feet. 

Weariness raised himself from his chair and gazed 
at the newcomer. Then he turned his eyes away and 
yawned. 

"You're not wanted here," he said, "young man. 
She's discouraged, and tired, and bored. She doesn't 
want you." 

"She does want me," said the boyish one, "but she 
doesn't realize it. I am the Spirit of Happiness and 
Sunshine and Love. Every young person needs me, 
whether they know it or not. Of course she wants me." 



A SPRINGTIME FANCY 25 

Weariness yawned again and brushed his hand care- 
lessly over his eyes. 

"Who are you?" he asked crossly. 

The young man drew himself up proudly, and stood 
before the bent form with the radiance of sunhght 
shining out of his eyes. 

"I," he said, "am Youth!" And he turned swiftly 
and went over to the crying girl and touched her on 
the shoulder. 

"Friend," he told her, "my friend, I am here with 
you." 

The girl raised her face and looked with tear-stained 
swollen eyes past the radiant figure. (She did not see 
him but she heard his voice.) 

"Who are you?" she whispered. "I did not know 
that I had a friend." 

"You haven't," Weariness snapped from his stand 
by the chair. "Nobody loves you — you hate every- 
body." 

"I am Youth," answered the young man pleasantly, 
ignoring the interruption. "And I am not your only 
friend. The whole world loves you." 

The girl was staring past Youth to Weariness — 
staring with a hopelessness in her eyes. 

"He's right," she whispered. "I hate — every- 
body." 

Youth started forward impetuously and laid his 
hand on her arm. 

"You don't — you can't," he protested. "Think 
of your school chums, think of your teachers, think of 
your church. Do you hate the little laughing babies 
that play in the sunlight of the park? Do you hate 
the little lame newsboy with his smile and his crutches? 
Think of your family — your mother." 

The girl wiped her eyes with a fluffy bit of lace hand- 
kerchief, and looked down sheepishly. "I forgot 
them," she murmured. But Youth was talking again. 



26 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

"You say that nobody loves you?" he asked her. 
"You dare to say that? How about your Sunday 
school class, and your pastor, and all of the people 
that you love? Don't you think that they return 
your affection?" 

The girl was smihng now. A watery, nearly-happy 
little smile. 

"I didn't think," she cried softly. Then her face 
clouded. "But I'm tired to death. I'm bored," she 
added. 

"Oh," said Youth tenderly, "you're wrong, little 
girl. Why, you're hardly more than a child yet. 
Your life has just begun. You aren't tired. I can 
see a pathway standing before you, clear-cut against 
the horizon line. I see milestones against that path- 
way, white, shining milestones. And they are marked 
'Happiness' and 'Duty' and 'Achievement' and 
'Love.' Yet you say that you are tired and bored." 

The girl started up from her seat, and spoke impul- 
sively, all her tiredness swept away. 

"Forgive me," she begged, "for talking so. I didn't 
mean a word of it. I won't talk that way again. I'm 
going on — smiling — down my pathway." 

Then the Young Man sprang forward and taking her 
face between his hands he kissed her softly. 

"Go," he said, "my friend. Life lies before you, 
and you have the kiss of Youth on your brow." 

Then Weariness slunk away. 

Outside the sun threw dancing shadows across the 
awakening earth. It was Easter time. 



MY VISITORS 

A STRANGER camc to my heart one day, 

As I sat in the morning sun; 
And I smiled as my doubts fell swift away, 
And the landscape bare lost its tint of gray; 
And the blue of the sky above 

Glowed turquoise-like as the day was done 
For the stranger's name was Love. 

A vision came to my soul one day. 

As I sat in the noontide glare; 
And the flowers bloomed in the heavy heat, 
And filled the air with a perfume sweet; 
And my brain with my trials could cope. 

Ah! the sun beat down but I did not care 
For the vision's name was Hope. 

An angel came to my soul one day. 

As I sat in the twilight dim, 
And the silver light of the moon's soft ray 
Swept all the dread from my heart away, 
And my cares found swift release. 

And the prayer of my life rose up to Him, 
For the angel's name was Peace. 



TO A WITHERED ROSE 

Only a withered rose — a little flower. 
With waxen petals white as maiden's love; 
That bloomed upon the earth for one short hour, 
And sent its fragrance forth to God above. 
Only a withered rose — but when you gave it, 
I saw the starlight gleaming in your eyes; 
And when I laid it near my heart, to save it, 
Your lips were tremulous with sweet surprise. 
The years have fluttered by with haste increasing. 
The memories are all I have, God knows! 
And yet my love has gone to you, unceasing. 
Although my heart is keeping but a rose. 
Ah! love, my soul would perish for the hour, 
That left me with a kiss — a withered flower. 



THE SUFFERERS 

Out of the smoke of the cannon that rages, 

Out of the hail of the bullets that fly, 
Out of the ashes and dust of the ages, 

Rises the sound of the harsh battle cry. 

Out of the fields with their harvest of dead men, 
Out of the forests made gloomy with fear; 

Rises the wail of the widow and orphan, 
Asking again for the home made so drear. 

High on a throne they have placed Death, the Reaper, 
In his mailed hand is a sword, dripping red: 

"I am my brother's protector and keeper," 
Glows on a shield that hangs over his head. 

Low in the dust at his feet, kneel the widows. 
Giving their tribute of sorrow and pain. 

Sobbing their prayers o'er the bodies of children. . . . 
Hot are the tears that are falling like rain. 

Heroes are made in a minute when dying. 

Men do brave deeds by the dozen — the score — 

But of what help is the courage, that flying. 
Drives not the wolf from the lone cottage door? 

Where is the comfort that comes from the knowledge 
That a whole nation will honor the dead; 

When women's faces are shrunken and tear-stained, 
And baby voices are asking for bread? 



IN THE SHADOW OF THE MESQUITE 

Redly, triumphantly, the sun rose over the green 
covered mountains that crept up softly from the grass 
of the meadows. It shone over a tiny town with a 
tall-spired white church, over a little brook with a 
picturesque rustic bridge. It shone over a small 
fluttering bit of a woman who stood with her head on 
a man's blue cloth shoulder; and it flickered rainbow- 
like on the tear drops that fringed her heavy black 
lashes. 

The man in blue patted the curly head clumsily 
with a heavy, droopy fist, and winked hard as he saw 
the clinging hands on his arm. 

"Don't cry, little girl," he begged her with a tremble 
in his husky voice, "It's only for a Httle time — a few 
months at best. Lincoln has called for us — but 
they'll be tired of fighting soon." 

Wearily the little woman raised her head from his 
shoulder and looked with dazed, frightened eyes at 
the face bending above her own. Quaveringly she 
spoke. 

"They won't," she denied flatly — "they won't. 
When I was at school there was a southern girl in my 
class. We loved her, but — one day she was bad and 
was sent up to her room until she apologized. She 
stayed there for a week and when she came down she 
hadn't — " suddenly her memory-filled mind came 
back to the present, "they won't!" she sobbed, "Oh! 
my dear!" 

Up from the valley came a sound of mellow notes 
falling into the music of a call. The man started. 

"It's the bugle," he told her sharply — "it means 



IN THE SHADOW OF THE MESQUITE 31 

go!'' suddenly his brown face paled — "it means," he 
moaned, "leaving home," his glance took in the sweet- 
ness of the sunny garden place before him, the little 
cottage with its half opened door; and wandered back 
to her face — "It means leaving — you!" he finished. 

The woman covered her face with her hands, and in 
the silence the man sobbed wildly, terribly. 

"It means good-bye," he said, "my wife." But 
suddenly through the morning sunlight, out of the 
swinging-open door there came a sound that cut his 
words off, the shrill cry of a baby. And as he heard 
it the man turned and ran back to the gate. Eagerly 
he grasped the woman's hand. 

"I can't go!" he almost screamed at her, "I can't. 
I'm not brave, I'm not a soldier, I can't fight! I'll 
stay on the farm with you and baby." 

The little woman straightened her slim shoulders. 
Miraculously her tearful eyes grew dry. 

"And be a coward?" she whispered. 

"Yes, a coward," answered the man fiercely, "a — 
a anything. I can't go!" 

''You can," gulped the little woman, "you must! 
You'll go now." 

"I may die," protested the man weakly, "then 
Junior — he'll be without a father." 

"But he'll have a decent memory of one — " pro- 
tested the little woman. 

The man straightened proudly — he turned. 

"I'll go," he told her, "now." And he stalked 
stiffly, with never a look backward, down the road. 
The little woman watched him go, with pale quiet 
face. Suddenly she raised her hands to her mouth. 

"Your grandfather," she shrilled, "fought under 
Washington," and then as he turned the bend in the 
road she dropped her head on the rickety gate. 

"I've sent him," she choked, "to his death. I've 
sent him — he won't come back! I've sent him." 



32 FRIENDS O' MINE 

Out of the door came the baby's cry, fretful, queru- 
lous, and the little woman hurried toward the cottage, 
drying her eyes on a bit of handkerchief. 

"He's gone," she sobbed. 

Foolishly the sunbeams played in her hair — just as 
half a mile away they were frolicking over brass but- 
tons, and muskets, and coats of blue. Somewhere in 
the distance a bugle sounded — calling. 

The boy lay face downward in the dirt and kicked 
with his toes. All about him stretched a weary, 
hostile land — a land covered with rugged treacherous 
hills, a land of snakes and lizards and queer birds, a 
land of dusty mesquite bushes and prickly, worn- 
looking cactus. The sun, an afternoon sun, set in a 
grey, troubled sky, shone down blisteringly on his 
thinly shirted back. But the boy did not seem con- 
scious of his uncomfortable place. His eyes, worried 
speculative eyes, sprang from one low bush to another, 
from one stone to the next. His imagination saw the 
sun glint on shining rifle barrels, his mind saw paper 
headlines — saw "sharpshooter" blazed in red letters 
against the sky. Nervously he dug his fingers into 
the hard, dry ground. 

"Oh! God," he prayed, "it isn't that I'm scared to 
die — it's the uncertainty of it. ... If I knew that 
there were millions of Greasers lying ready to shoot 
my head off, I wouldn't mind so much. It's the 
perhaps that wears me out: if — " 

"There, there, Billy," quite unnoticed an older man 
had crawled toward him through the loose sand, "don't 
take on so. You're not goin' to be killed yet awhile." 

"I'm not frightened," the boy quavered, "I'm not." 

"0' course," the older man mopped the water from 
his dripping forehead, "o' course I know that. When 
yer mother was dyin' didn't she tell me, ' I'm proud o' 
my boy!' Didn't she?" 



IN THE SHADOW OF THE MESQUITE 33 

"Yes," the boy's voice was a bit clearer now, a bit 
more assured, "Mother said she was proud of me." 

"'Member how y' father uster tell stories?" persisted 
the older man, "'bout y' grandfather that died at Bull 
Run? 'Bout the war — 'Member? How you uster 
say, 'I'll be a soldier too?'" 

"Yes," the voice was very strong now, "Dad often 
told me about Grandfather. I remember." 

"An' now you are one," the older man persisted 
softly — "an' I'm fightin' agin'. Perhaps the place is 
filled with," his hand pointed cautiously to the mesquite 
bushes that loomed up bulgy, misshapen in the distance, 
"with guns pointin' at us. P'raps ef you move one 
little mite you'll get shot — who knows?" 

"I don't care," the boy's voice rose up bravely, 
"I'm not scared, I don't care." 

"Know what day it is," the man's steady drawl 
grew very tender, "up in God's country — Know what 
day it is, Billy?" 

The boy thought a moment, slowly, carefully. 

"It's the last part of May," he pondered — "no, 
it's the first of June. Perhaps," he smiled childishly, 
"say, pal, I can't remember the date. I get all balled 
up — down here." 

The man grinned quickly, sympathetically, at the 
youth of his companion, then: 

"It's the thirtieth o' May," he informed grandly, 
"it's Decoration Day, up home." 

"Is it?" asked the boy listlessly. His eyes followed 
the slanting sun rays as they crawled earthward. 
"So it's the thirtieth of May." 

"They're singin' songs," droned the man softly with 
his eyes closed, "the kiddies, I mean. An' up in the 
church the parson's preachin', that all men should be 
brothers, maybe." 

The boy rested his head comfortably on his hands, 
and glued his eyes on the farthest scrubby hill. 



34 FRIENDS O' MINE 

"Yes?" he prompted drowsily. 

"The little girls 'r' dressed in white," went on the 
man, "an' the ladies have on their best silks that they 
wear of a Sunday. The men're in their shirt sleeves 
restin'." His eyes followed the sweep of the plain 
thoughtfully. 

"The G.A.R.'ll be drivin' around town," he mused, 
"in one carriage, pulled by one horse. They'll go to 
the cemetery, an' they'll put flowers all over the graves, 
and flags, and potted plants. An' the old men'U 
stumble over the path an' say: 'That's Jim's grave — 
he was shot at Gettysburg,' or, "member Hamilton 
Reed? How he most got court-martialed fer callin' 
on that girl?' I can hear 'em now." 

"Yes," the boy was paying little attention to the 
words, "Yes, go on." 

Quickly the man glanced at his friend — 

"Yer grandfather's buried there," he said softly, 
"an' p'raps somebody'll put the spicy pinks from yer 
garden by his stone. He always set great store by 
'em — they say." 

The boy's glance strayed back to the man at his side. 

"Grandmother told me — " he began eagerly — 

There was a rustle in the dusty cactus bush behind 
them and the man glanced around nervously to meet 
the eyes of a young fellow in khaki who crawled rapidly 
in their direction. The boy stared off into the distance 
with a set, dull expression on his childish face. 

"The captain has a new wrinkle," the latest arrival 
told them, quickly, "I hope it means sumpin' to do — 
I'm sick o' layin' in the sun. He wants you both t' 
come in." 

"So—" drawled the man, "'bout face, Billy," he 
added to the boy at his side; and hastily, quietly, they 
crept back some two hundred yards to a small circle 
of men who lay quiet in the midst of a patch of 
mesquite. 



IN THE SHADOW OF THE MESQUITE 35 

"Oh, you're back," it was the commander of the 
little squad who saw them first. He was nervously 
biting at a short scrubby mustache. 

"Say, we're here t' scout, aren't we?" he asked 
abruptly. 

"Unless it's t' bake," put in the older man with 
entire lack of respect, "what's up, Cap?" 

"This," the captain clipped his sentences short, 
"we've got t' do something — not stay here for a 
month. We've got to report to the rest whether 
there's anything up around here — haven't we?" 

"Yes," said somebody quickly, "we've got to." . 

"What's there?" jerked the captain, pointing out 
over the sandy plain, "what's there, Bill?" he turned 
to the boy. 

"Hills," answered the boy gravely, "and sand, and 
dirt, and mesquite bushes, and big stones." 

"Anything else," the captain still eyed the boy 
questioningly — "anything else?" 

"Sharp-shooters perhaps," admitted the boy shud- 
deringly "scouts perhaps, nearly an army perhaps." 

"Exactly," by way of emphasis the captain kicked 
his feet deep into the greyness of the sand. "Exactly. 
There's almost anything — perhaps. It's up to us to 
find out what's there for sure." 

"Go on," the older man prompted breathlessly, 
"y' got sum'in' on yer mind. We got yer. Cap!" 

The captain looked around the circle questioningly. 

"If one of us stepped out, and walked across the 
plain," he spoke firmly, "if one of us stepped out — 
he might get shot — but we'd know what was in the 
hills." 

"Yes," the older man spoke again, dryly. The 
captain moistened his dry lips with his tongue. 

"There are eight of us here," he said slowly, "and 
I have eight sHps of paper, here. One has a cross on 
it. . . . There may not be anything in front." 



36 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

The eight grew white, slowly — painfully. Then 
the restive young man in khaki spoke. 

"Pass 'em," he said simply, "we're game." 

Carefully the captain drew eight papers from his 
pocket. Carefully he dropped them into his broad 
felt hat, and then with a gasping breath he thrust the 
hat at the boy. 

"Draw," he said huskily. 

There was a breathless moment. Eight faces grew 
still and white, eight hearts thumped riotously while 
the boy unfolded his paper. Marvelously the tan 
faded from his cheeks. 

"You — needn't go on," he quavered. 

"Billy," it was the older man who spoke. All the 
languid drawl had gone out of his voice. "You don't 
mean — " 

" I've got it," rasped the boy. 

"I'm sorry. Bill," the captain spoke gruffly to cover 
his real feeling, "that it was you. You're younger 
than we are, and better educated. But it was fair." 

Cautiously the boy looked over his shoulder at the 
angry hills, at the gloomy, evil mesquite bushes. 
Suddenly he burst into a torrent of tears. 

"I can't do it," he sobbed brokenly, "I can't! 
There's a girl at home — waiting. There's money, 
and happiness, and love — waiting. ... I can't walk 
out there, I may be killed," he screamed. 

"Let me go. Cap," it was the older man talking. 
"Let me go — please. I ain't got a thing — t' lose.'* 

Stubbornly the captain shook his head. , 

"It was perfectly fair," he growled, "I'm sorry. 
Don't be a coward. Bill." 

"I can't help it," wearily the boy raised his head, 
"I am a coward. I want to go home!" 

The older man coughed nervously. Then he laid 
his hand persuasively on the boy's arm. 

"Back home," he said softly, "they're puttin' flowers 



IN THE SHADOW OF THE MESQUITE 37 

on yer grandfather's grave — 'cause he was a 
hero!" 

"Back home," chokingly the boy spoke, "back 
home, everything's waiting." 

And then the older man threw an arm over the 
shaking shoulders, while he pointed skyward with his 
other hand. 

"See that cloud," he asked softly, "that dirty, 
grey-colored cloud? Well behind that — God's wait- 
ing." 

The boy looked at the faces crowded around him — 
looked with an eternal farewell in his glance. Stumb- 
ling with fright he climbed to his feet. 

"I was a coward, I was yellow," he said brokenly, 
"but don't think too badly of me. I'm going — now." 
With a sudden glow of courage he threw back his head, 
and stepped out slowly into the dustiness of the plain. 
"I'm going!" he said. 

The men watched him as he strolled carelessly 
along, with straight shoulders, across the clear spaces 
of grey sand. The captain's lips trembled in prayer. 
. . . There was a puff of smoke somewhere in the 
distance, a sharp crack, and a whirl of dust. Limply 
the boy crumpled up, and fell, a heap of dull garments 
against the duller ground. The older man sobbed. 

Far off in the distance the sun sank redly, triumph- 
antly over the highest hill. 



THE FOOTSTEPS ON THE STAIR 

What has the grim past done to you, 

That you walk in the night alone? 
When the clock strikes two, the still house through, 

I hear your step on the stone. 
So I light my candle, and open my door, 

And peer down the narrow stair; 
Ah! I see no sign of you far below, 

But I know that you are there. 

Why do you walk at night alone. 

With your faltering step — and slow. 
When the moonlight shines on the dusky pines. 

With a wavering, ghostly glow. 
Is your soul so crowded with grief and dread 

That you walk on my narrow stair? 
For night after night I hear you come. 

Though I never see you there. 

What has the cold world done to you. 

That you walk in the dead of night? 
For I hear you go so soft and slow, 

Though you never reach my sight. 
By my candle light I see no form, 

As I lean o'er the narrow stair; 
But — a curtain is swaying down below, 

And I know that you are there. 



THE BALLAD OF THE COLD- 
HEARTED PRINCESS 

Far, far from the midnight star, 

Are the fairy caves by the strand; 
And the moon glows down on a lonely town 

In the midst of a weary land. 
There are seven hills with their moaning rills, 

And as many seas that weep; 
Ah! close to the sky are the mountains high 

And the seven seas are deep ! 

Oh! there lived a princess fair as day. 

In a town by the silver sands; 
Her eyes were blue as the ocean's hue. 

White as the foam her hands. 
Her hair was bright as the sunbeam's gold 

And her cheeks held the rose of dawn, 
And her laugh was gay as the winds that play. 

In the light of a summer morn. 

Oh! the princess lived by the ocean shore. 

And never a prince loved she. 
For her heart ran wide as the boundless tide 

To the land where no lovers be. 
And her father fumed and her mother wept. 

And the princes tore at their hair, 
But the fairies smiled at the wilful child. 

With her laugh and her beauty rare. 



40 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

Oh! the princess sat by the bounding waves, 

With a frown on her Uly brow, 
"Ah! why should it be," at last quoth she, 

"That I should be bothered now? 
I love no man and my heart is free. 

But the weight of a ruler's crown, 
Would kill my youth in the name of truth, 

And cares would carry me down." 

Oh! a fairy rose from a hidden cave, 

By the shores of the ocean deep. 
"My dear," said she, "it can never be. 

That you want your youth to keep? 
That you want to live in a lonely way 

With never a crown to wear, 
With not a man in your life long plan. 

And never a child to care?" 

Oh! the princess sobbed on the sandy beach. 

And, "Your words are true," she cried 
"For my heart is cold as the ocean old. 

And wild as the roaming tide. 
Sweet fairy, do me a favor kind, 

That my troubled soul may be still; 
Let me dry my tears in a sleep of years." 

And the fairy said, "I will." 

Oh! the fairy stood by the foaming waves. 

And she raised her wand in her hand, 
"Oh, sleep," said she, "by the lonely sea. 

On the edge of the friendly land. 
Oh, sleep," she said, "till the true prince comes 

Who can make your cold heart leap, 
And your eyes unclose, and your cheeks turn rose. 

Oh, sleep, little princess, sleep!" 



BALLAD OF THE COLD-HEARTED PRINCESS 41 

Oh! the princess slept by the moaning sea, 

And the fairy stood at her side, 
And she raised her hand o'er the peaceful land, 

And over the bounding tide. 
Till seven hills that were high and wide, 
i And seven seas that were deep, 
Sprang up from the ground and the beach around. 

To guard o'er the maiden's sleep. 

Far, far from the midnight star. 

Are the fairy caves by the strand. 
And the moon glows down on a lonely town, 

In the midst of a weary land. 
But if you can pass the seven hills. 

And the seven seas so deep; 
The princess fair will be waiting there 

With a smile on her lips — asleep. 



SMILES AND TEARS 

Did you ever try smiling as a cure for the blues and 
as a tonic for tiredness, and to banish heartaches? 
For a smile is an easy thing to cultivate. 

I was going ofTiceward one day in a very overcrowded 
trolley car. It was pouring outside and my gloves 
clung damply to my fingers. A stray wisp of hair was 
tickling my nose and my hands were too full of dripping 
umbrella and swaying strap to brush it away. I could 
feel that my forehead was wrinkled up, and my mouth 
drawn down. I thought of all the unpleasant things 
that had ever happened to me, and, glaring at the un- 
relenting sky, I wondered why it had to rain so hard. 
Then, looking along the car, I saw another girl hanging 
to a strap. She was ever so much wetter than I. The 
dampness oozed out of a crack in her worn shoe; the 
bare hands that gripped her umbrella and strap looked 
cramped and tired, and two straggly locks of hair tickled 
her rather small, inolTensive nose. But as I looked at 
her and pitied her, she glanced up and caught up my 
eye, and she smiled at me! Then, somehow, the rain- 
drops looked very bright and jewel-like, and the gray 
of the sky seemed warmer and more friendly. I forgot 
that my feet were wet and / smiled back. AH that day, 
through the work and hurry of the hours, I carried a 
sunbeam hid in my heart. 

I once knew a little boy who was a philosopher in 
his small boy way. His mother and father were dead 
and he lived with a rather strict aunt, who denied him 
a great many pleasures. One day a chum asked him 
to go skating. It was beautiful weather, with a cold 
wind that blew the snow into tiny crystals that filled 



SMILES AND TEARS 43 

the air, and ice that was Uke a pohshed diamond gleam- 
ing out an invitation to hockey sticks and skates. 

The small boy went home and asked his aunt if he 
might go skating. (I was calling on the lady at that 
time.) He told her that he would be careful and that 
he would not stay long; but her mouth kept shutting 
a little more tightly every minute until I feared for the 
beautiful plan. When the boy stopped for breath the 
storm broke. 

"Skating?" exclaimed the lady crossly. "Of course 
not. You have home-work to do. Telephone James 
that you cannot go with him!" 

I started to remonstrate, but when I saw the firm 
mouth I stopped. The little boy never said a word, 
but a moment later I heard him talking over the tele- 
phone. 

"I am sorry, Jimmy," I heard him say in a voice 
that would tremble the least little bit. " I'm sorry, but 
auntie says that I must stay home and do my lessons. 
I hate to stay home, but — I'm smihng hard!" 

I got up and left. I didn't want to smile at the aunt. 

In a story which I read a few days ago, the author, 
William T. Locke, makes one of his characters a butter- 
fly society lady. She tells why she just enjoys herself, 
instead of going into life seriously. 

"If you dig down far enough into the earth," she 
said, "you come to water. If you bore down deep 
enough into life you come to tears. . . ." 

Undoubtedly she is right, for though life may be all 
laughter and music and poetry on the top, there is 
always suffering, and dread, and heartache underneath. 
And yet, how can we appreciate the smiles if we have 
never come in contact with the tears? The tears will 
come, if your life is worth living — perhaps only a 
few, maybe a great many very bitter, salty ones. But 
as sure as the sunshine follows the rain, so will smiles 
make a rainbow in your life. And if you smile hard 



44 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

when your eyes are brimming over, perhaps you will 
lighten the way for others as well as for yourself. 

When the world is a gloomy shadow. 

And the skies are a sullen gray; 
When the wind weeps low in the branches. 

And the people forget to pray; 
When the last fond hope has been broken, 

By a force that is cold and grim; 
Then take your place with a cheerful face. 

And smile — though your eyes are dim! 



LA MARSEILLAISE 

A GROUP of men that hurry, 

A sudden nervous flurry 

Of music, from a band of boys in tarnished white and 

gold, 
With shoulders bent and sagging, 
In garments worn and bagging, 
They tramp together, asking for the birthright they 

have sold. 

Oh I eyes grown dim and weary, 

That look with glances dreary. 

About them at the buzzing throng that taunt them as 

they gaze; 
Oh! tired hearts that quicken. 
And crowds that thicken — thicken. 
As through the morning sunhght drifts the warlike 

Marseillaise. 

The throbbing march draws nearer, 

The notes ring stronger, clearer. 

With all the music of a famished call for fairer play; 

And as I see them coming, 

With steps that match the drumming. 

The dirty crowded city street fades swiftly far away. 

I hear a frantic yelling, 
A thousand voices telling 

That France is free from bondage, that the guillotine 
is red. 



46 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

I see the women knitting, 
The merry sunlight flitting 

About them, as they whisper that a king and queen are 
dead. 

I see a garden growing 

With lonely roses, blowing 

Where lords and ladies wandered that were young and 

fair of face; 
I hear a wagon creaking, 
With rusty hinges squeaking, 
That carries them to murder in a bloody market place. 

A group of men that hurry, 

Down-bent with care and worry. 

That stumble through the shadow of the hopeless 
nights and days. 

Oh! can it be a warning 

The dawn of some new morning. 

To hear them play the music of the warlike Marseil- 
laise? 



MILL CHILDREN 

Little children worn and pallid. 

Toiling at the looms till night; 
Fighting for the bread we owe them, 

In the dusty, fitful light. 
Little children, grey and haggard, 

Murmuring their baby prayers, 
Gracious God, Who rules above them. 

Let them know that some one cares. 

Toiling at the looms by daylight. 

Sleeping through a night of dread; 
While the moon and stars are shining. 

In the Heaven overhead. 
Hear their murmured supplications. 

Hear their sobs with sorrow torn; 
Answer to their hopeless pleading. 

Little children, pallid, worn! 



THE GIPSY SPIRIT 

"Evening," said the boy, as he swung in the ham- 
mock, "evening in the woods — with a campfire and 
the dark of the shadows, and a best chum to talk to." 
And my heart echoed the words, for it was Indian 
summer, and the leaves were commencing to turn, and 
the listless southern breeze was beginning to have a 
tiny snap in it. I, too, thought of the woods at night, 
with the stars overhead and the soft sigh of the wind in 
the trees. 

Have you ever felt the gipsy spirit — you people of 
the cities, who live in the midst of a very unimaginative 
and workaday world, and you of the country who 
scarcely realize the wonderful blessing of the great open 
spaces, and the joy of the growing things? 

Just around the end of September the feeling begins 
to grow on us. There is something about the tragic 
splendor of the dying leaves and the fading summer- 
time that touches a vagabond chord in the heart. 
Spring is beautiful, and summer is perfect for vaca- 
tions, but autumn brings a longing to get away from 
the unreal things of life, out into the forest at night 
with a campfire and the rustling leaves. 

I went to a dinner party lately given by a class of 
young people who were perhaps good examples of the 
rising generation. Somehow, we began talking of fairy 
godmothers, and a girl spoke up — beautiful, slender, 
a Tennyson princess. She said in her soft, musical 
voice: 

"If a fairy godmother would give me bushels and 
bushels of money, I would have the largest house on 
Fifth Avenue, and the most expensive automobile, 



THE GIPSY SPIRIT 49 

and the best servants money would buy! And I would 
be happy." 

"And I," said the shabby little girl, who was going 
to be a genius some day, "I would go into the shops 
and buy clothes — dresses and furs and hats — and 
shoes! And then I would walk around and dazzle 
people!" 

But the matter-of-fact boy surprised us. He looked 
far into the distance, over the top of our glittering 
table, and when his voice spoke, it was soft and won- 
derfully ringing. 

"When I have lots of money," he told us, "I will 
chuck up the whole thing — the city with its crowds 
and artificial light, and the working for other men, 
and the asphalt sidewalks, and I will go out into the 
country, where the trees smell fresh at twilight!" 

For it was Indian summer and the call of the gipsy 
was in his heart. 

A few years ago a small boy lived near me. He was 
a pale youngster, with deep-set eyes and a charming 
smile that made his lean little face attractive. But 
people — unseeing mortals — called him "queer," be- 
cause he sat looking up at the drifting clouds; and 
played with caterpillars and beetles; and recited little 
rhymeless verses. And the child looked around with 
hopeless eyes for a soul that could understand. But 
at last a day came — a day that was all blue and golden 
and gorgeous — a day when every flower beckoned and 
each breeze brought a message from Pan. So the 
little boy picked up a tiny bundle containing a fairy 
book, a tooth-brush and three cookies, and ran away. 

They found him that night in a wood not far from 
his home — fast asleep. The fairy-book lay open by 
his side, and the cookies were all eaten. And his un- 
romantic family, after they had sobbed together in 
their great relief, held a council of war, which resulted 
in a hard spanking for the small boy. 



50 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

I saw him the next morning. He wore a chastened 
air, and his smile was only on the surface. Swinging 
on the garden gate, he told me the sad story: 

"I was sittin' on the porch," he confided softly, "an' 
a little breeze came along. It blew my hair and whis- 
pered to me, 'Johnny, there's fairies an' witches in the 
woods near your house.' But I said, 'Go away, bad 
breeze.' An' then another little breeze came along and 
it said: 'Johnny, there's tiny rabbits and squirrels in 
the woods!' An' so I went to find 'em — that's all." 

For the little boy heard the call of the woods in his 
heart and he was answering it in his childish way. 
Perhaps some day he will be a great somebody; but 
his family will have to help him with understanding 
instead of with punishment. 

I think that poets often feel the gipsy spirit, and I 
believe that their best verses are written at such times. 
Longfellow felt the call of the wind-swept forests and 
the calm of the sunset glow when he wrote "Hiawatha." 
I am sure that KipUng felt the same spirit in his heart 
when he put the swinging, care-free rhythm into his 
"Mandalay." And all through Stevenson's books — 
Stevenson, who was given "The Road of the Loving 
Heart" — there is a certain message from the great 
outdoors. 

Some people look upon the gipsy spirit as a romantic, 
silly thing; but if taken in the right way, it is very 
right and true. Nobody can call the unkind voice 
that makes a man desert his family, or a young girl 
leave her home to go to the city, a true gipsy call; for. 
that call is the call of selfishness. So many people 
confuse the two when they frown upon romance and 
the beauty of the great outdoors. And I want people 
to look at the thing in a sensible way. 

God made the forests, the tiny stars, and the wild 
winds — and I think that he made them partly as a 
balance for that kind of civilization that would choke 



THE GIPSY SPIRIT 51 

the spirit of joy out of our hearts. He made the great 
open places for the people who want to be alone with 
him and talk to him, away from the crowds that kill all 
reverence. And I think that he is glad at times to 
have us forget our cares and responsibilities that we 
may be nearer him — as Jesus was when he crept away 
into the wilderness to pray. 

Can you think of any way in which you could be 
nearer God than just this? 

"Evening in the woods — with a campfire — and 
the dark shadows — and the stars overhead." 

When the Indian crept through the thicket 

On noiseless and hurrying feet. 
And the Persian wrote in his garden 

'Mid the blood of the rose-petals sweet. 
When the fauns and the dryads were singing 

The song that is sounding anew, 
They all helped to build up the message 

That the woodlands are calling to you. 



THE ROMANY LULLABY 

Hush thee, my baby, the night is before thee. 

Bright are the stars, and the moon faintly gleams; 

Crickets are chirping, and owlets are calling, 
Heed not their chatter, but drift into dreams. 

Over thy cradle the soft leaves are stirring. 
Tossed by the breezes that murmur and play; 

Down through the forest a tiny stream wanders, 
Singing its life song, now sobbing, now gay. 

Hush thee, my baby, the spirits above thee 

Guard well thy slumbers, and smile on thy rest; 

And o'er thy cradle a mother is watching. 
Kissing the fingers that lie on her breast. 

Night birds are calling from tree unto tree top; 

Rabbits and deer from the deep thickets peep; 
Little green snakes 'neath the pine cones are stirring — 

All of the woodland prepares for its sleep. 

Hush thee, my baby, and sigh not in slumber, 

The earth is thy friend, and the sky o'er thee gleams; 

And thy mother is near thee, as ever to love thee. 
Until thou hast found them — the beautiful dreams. 



GOOD FRIDAY 

I WAS a little boy, who walked 

Beside the beaten way, 
The air was hung with flower scents, 

And in the meadows gay, 
I heard the song-birds murmuring, 

And children at their play. 

I saw a crowd upon a hill, 
And then against the sky 

I saw three crosses standing out, 
And on them pinioned high, 

I knew a Holy Man, our Lord, 
Was just about to die. 

I saw the shining sun go down, 

I saw the flowers fade, 
I saw the fire gleam above, 

As on His face it strayed. 
And then I heard a woman sob, 

And lo! I was afraid. 

And yet, I was a little boy, 

Beside the beaten way, 
I did not know a thing to do. 

Nor yet a thing to say. 
But though I was a child, I knelt 

Beside the road to pray. 



WHEN TROUBLE COMES 

The world was gloomy, disagreeable, full of sorrow — 
that is, the City world. Everybody had a million 
troubles and usually a cold in the head. It was warm 
for winter time and heavy fur coats were sloppy, need- 
less things. Nobody loved anybody else and every- 
body grumbled to his neighbor. Motormen on trolley 
cars swore at the expressmen whose wagons blocked 
the street; elevator men growled when you kept the 
car waiting a moment, and the middle-aged woman 
snapped out, "You'd oughter be careful," when you 
bumped into her while going full speed around a 
corner. It was not a nice world. 

Then the snow came. Heavy, crystal white flakes 
hurried to the ground and melted and froze tight to 
the pathways. Huge drifts piled up on the sidewalks 
and huger drifts filled up the roads. The homeless 
ones shivered and died, and the tiny babies cried 
through purple Hps. Trolley cars and express wagons 
alike were blocked, and taxis did not dart about. 

One would suppose that the cross, unloving world 
grew more cross and unloving under these circum- 
stances. It came as a great surprise to me to find out 
that everybody seemed happier and more friendly. The 
motormen, instead of swearing at the truck that blocked 
up the car tracks, would say: "I'm glad I don't drive 
a truck! That poor feller has a worse time'n I do!" 
The people who grumbled compared the snowstorm 
with the " kind we had when we were little kids." The 
elevator men looked sympathetically at your wet feet, 
and when you bumped into a stout, middle-aged lady 



WHEN TROUBLE COMES 55 

and murmured a scared apology, she answered back, 
smilingly: "Oh, that's all right. Don't say a word. 
Nobody can stand on these streets!" 

Sometimes I feel sure that God sends hardships to 
actually make people happier. 

You probably, at least once a month, read a certain 
type of story that tells about a man who has an enemy, 
a deadly foe whom he tries to injure in every possible 
way. He has a harrowing time with Revenge and 
Hatred (spelled with capital letters) until the climax of 
the story arrives. For the climax is always trouble 
that comes in some way to the hated enemy. It may 
be a fire, and it may be a flood. It may be the death 
of his only daughter or bankruptcy. It may be almost 
anything from suicide to an earthquake. But it is 
always trouble. And at this time the hero, laying 
aside his life-long hatred, helps his enemy. If it is a 
fire, he always saves somebody's life; and if it is failure 
in business, he offers his check-book. 

You read the story and you laugh. Then you say: 
"Oh, impossible!" or, "Too melodramatic!" But hu- 
man nature is like that. It may be hard to like a girl 
when she has a dozen Paris gowns and a beautiful 
limousine and a conceited disposition; but it is very 
easy to be sorry for her and to want to help her when 
the Paris gowns are sold to a second-hand clothes man 
and the conceited disposition has been squeezed to 
death. 

You remember the San Francisco earthquake and 
the Titanic disaster? You couldn't very well forget 
them. You remember the terror, the fright, the tears. 
But right along with the terrrible things, don't you 
remember the wonderful amount of human kindness 
that everybody showed? Can't you remember how 
boarding-school girls gave entertainments and the 
newspapers started relief funds to help the suffering? 
Didn't you see the crowds that waited for the latest 



56 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

news? Weren't the stony-faced, prosaic ones the first 
to break down and cry? 

When the world was still a very young place, there 
was not very much tenderness and sympathy lying 
about. The weaker, more helpless ones were preyed 
upon by the strong tribal leaders, and the sufferers 
from famine and disease were killed outright to save 
trouble and worry. It was then that the flood came 
along and with its black skies and angry waters made 
the children of earth cling to each other and comfort 
each other in their trouble. It was only when the 
martyrs perished in the Roman arena that people 
knew about the Christian faith. They were sorry for 
the sufferers and they admired bravery. Soon their 
sympathy turned to interest and the interest to love and 
happiness. So the church grew through trouble. 

Sympathy is the greatest thing in the world — the 
very greatest! Poets protest that love makes the 
world go around; but it seems to me that sympathy 
helps quite a bit. And though sometimes people may 
seem unkind and stupid and cross; though the girl in 
the street-car frowns out of the window and the motor- 
man scowls, you must remember that the crossness is 
only veneered on, and that the kindness is waiting in 
the background for trouble to bring it out. 

A snowstorm is only a little thing at best! A few 
inches of whiteness that will be gone as soon as the 
sun grows strong enough; a thin film of iciness that 
bothers one. But a snowstorm, no matter how small, 
brings trouble to the heart of a city, and kindness to 
the heart of the city dweller. It brought hunger, and 
cold, and rheumatism to some people, but it brought 
smiles and happiness to others. 

Oh, friends of mine, it's when the way is slippery and 
people cannot seem to stand alone, that the world puts 
out a helpful hand, and eases the burden with ever 
ready sympathy. 



THE LONELY HEART 

I SIT and dream by the window, 
And I see her far o'er the foam. 

The patient, loving mother, 
In the tiny cottage home. 

Ah! why did I leave my country. 
In a foreign land to roam? 

The glare and dust of the city 
Rise up from the noisy street; 

But I know she is cool and happy, 
'Mid scenes that are calm and sweet. 

And I know that her love is with me, 
A guide to my faltering feet. 

But my needle must start its clicking, 
And I take my work in my hand. 

With a sigh for the grass and flowers 
Of a quiet country land. 

And I pray to the God above me. 
For I know He will understand. 



THE FIRELIGHT AND YOU 

The firelight — and you, close here beside me, 

The darkness and the crying of the gale. 
Shut out. Upon the mountain wolves are howling, 

And on the ocean, low with broken sail 
The wounded vessels quiver, start, and die. 

And on the city streets so gay and bright, 
The homeless folk are gasping — I forget them 

With you beside me in the glowing light. 

The firelight, and you with eyes so tender. 

And hair that shows the gleam of Midas' store, 
With lips that clear-cut, smiling, make me wonder, 

If we could linger here forevermore. 
The silence deep that holds a thousand queries, 

And yet a thousand answers ringing true; 
What though the storm be raging, dear, behind me? 

When I can see the firehght and you. 



FROM TWELVE TO ONE 

I GOT out of the elevator feeling strangely happy 
and in tune with the springtime. The chimes of 
Grace Church were ringing softly to the melody of a 
sweet old hymn and the sunhght was tinged with that 
golden glory that some sunlight does not possess. It 
really seemed a shame to eat, and yet I was unroman- 
tically hungry. 

But the glory of the wonderful day stopped right 
there, for one large drop of bitterness was in my cup 
of joy. I had to write as soon as I finished my lunch- 
eon, and the prospect did not please me. The spring- 
time was too beautiful, the air too fresh and balmy and 
my mind was too full of dreams. 

I went into the crowded restaurant and sat down in 
the only empty place, at a table with a young mother and 
her tiny daughter. The little girl was absorbing vanilla 
ice cream with a rapidity that astonished me until I 
heard her mother's voice say in tense, whispering tones: 

"Hurry up, baby! I can't wait much longer — " 
and then again in a minute, 

" I've got a lot to do, baby; eat just a little bit faster." 
Whereupon the child gulped down the last of the ice 
cream and was led, crimson-faced and choking, from 
the room. 

An old man sat down at a table near mine; from the 
first glance I had of him I knew that he was cross and 
unpleasant, and when he spoke I found that his voice 
was even as I had imagined. Loudly, angrily, he 
called to the head waiter: 

"Hey, you, get somebody to take my order!" and 
when at last a protesting little white-robed girl was 
produced to serve him, he snarled: 



60 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

"Took you long enough, didn't it? Why can't you 
be here at your place?" 

Then he went into minute details about his dinner 
until the waitress was so confused that I doubt if she 
remembered her own name. His manner was in marked 
contrast to the sweet way of a woman, well past middle 
age, who sat at the next table. The tired, white-faced 
girl who balanced a heavy tray looked almost rested 
when she received a charming smile and a "Thank 
you, dear," as she deposited her burden on the snowy 
cloth. 

Three girls — attractive, light-hearted young wo- 
men — sat down at my table and began to talk. They 
minded my presence not at all, and I soon became 
quite interested in their little conversation, for they 
were talking of love and ideals. 

"I," said the tallest of the girls, as she pulled her 
chic little bonnet over her eyes, "I am never going to 
get married!" but she blushed as she spoke. 

The next tallest girl looked up quickly. 

"You say that?" she asked, nonchalantly biting an 
olive, "but last night I saw — " She broke off mean- 
ingly as a scarlet, burning flush crept up over the cheeks 
of the first speaker. Then all three girls laughed 
together. 

The smallest girl, a chubby, cunning little lady, 
raised her eyes from her plate: 

"I think," she spoke softly, "that I will like getting 
married, now that my ideal has come along. I hke 
to cook things, and wash dishes, and take care of a 
house, and oh, all sorts of things!" 

The tallest girl spoke again : 

"Yes, marry a man to work for him," she drawled; 
"not much!" But the smallest girl did not answer. 
Her mild blue eyes gazed far off into the distance, and 
one could tell that her thoughts were dancing madly 
between dainty wall papers and embroidered pillow- 



FROM TWELVE TO ONE 61 

cases, and hemstitched tablecloths. And as I glanced 
down I saw the sparkle of a modest diamond on her 
left hand. 

A party of schoolgirls drifted in dressed in their 
prettiest clothes, and evidently ready for a matinee. 
Although they were attractive girls, probably from very 
good families, their laughter and conversation was a 
little too loud to be in good taste. 

These girls, although they did not dream of it, af- 
forded quite a lot of amusement to three attractive 
college men who were seated near them. I saw the 
boys whisper behind carefully lifted hands, and then 
one of them smiled broadly at the leader of the noisy 
newcomers. 

The boys left before I did, and I heard one say as 
he passed my table: "Those children ought to be kept 
home. Why, they acted as if they had never seen a 
man before!" 

And one of his companions answered, in perfectly 
serious vein: "If I had a daughter and she acted Hke 
that, I would make her mighty sorry for it!" 

And at that moment a shrill sentence drifted from 
the girls' table and I caught this: "That tall blond one 
is awfully cute! I think I made quite a hit with him." 

If the girls of that age only knew what disgust they 
caused perhaps they would be more careful. 

I got up, and with a smile that was heartily returned 
by the girls at my table, I left the room and entered 
the going-down elevator. An old lady with soft, wavy 
hair, who stood beside me, was smiling dreamily as she 
glanced over the crowded, noisy throng. With an 
impulse to confide in some one, I turned to her. 

"It's queer," I said, "isn't it? The different people, 
and everything." But here she surprised me. She, 
too, had been "seeing things." 

"'All the world's a stage,'" she quoted, "'and all the 
men and women merely players.'" 



THE EGYPTIAN LACE-WOMAN 

I HEAR the call of the sun-kissed sand, 

And I hear the wail of the sea, 
As I walk the streets in a foreign land, 

Where never a friend can be. 
The buildings loom high above me. 

And I shut my eyes from the glare; 
Ah, is there a God to love me. 

And is there a soul to care? 

I hold my wares in my hand to show, 

But every one passes by; 
And I see as I look that they do not know, 

And will not heed my cry. 
So I shut my eyes from the bustling throng, 

And I feel the soft breeze blow. 
As I look o'er the stretch of the desert long. 

Where the vultures circle low. 

Oh, sweet is the smell of the spices, 

And soft is the feel of the sand; 
But a voice is asking for prices 

In the tongue of this stranger land. 
*' Wilt buy, my lady? God bless thee ! 

Now, Allah, look down from on high; 
May the favor of heaven caress thee, 

And be near until thou die." 

For every coin shall be laid away 

That I earn on this little stand. 
Till at last shall come the happy day 

When I sail for my native land. 
Where the only gold worth keeping 

Is the gleam of the sand I love; 
Where coldness is ever sleeping. 

And God is enthroned above. 



TO BE A CHILD IN MAY 

The woods with laughter ringing, 
The merry robins singing, 

The flowers peeping shyly from behind their glossy 
shade, 
The tree-tops swaying lightly. 
The sunbeams dancing brightly, 

The grasses green and trampled where the fairy 
band have played. 

The office with its worry. 
Its bustle and its hurry. 
The sound of feet that stumble as they hasten down 
the hall; 
The trolleys with their clatter. 
The presses with their chatter. 
The telephone that jangles with a nervous, angry 
call. 

The little brook that rambles. 
Beneath the scratching brambles. 

The springtime's blaze of color — pink and purple, 
green and tan; 
The mountains, dim and hazy, 
The little breeze so lazy, 
That carries all the sweetness of the magic pipes of 
Pan. 

The books I should be reading, 
When all the woods are pleading 

And telling me to drop my work, to run away — 
away; 
The verse I should be writing. 
With every instinct fighting — 

Oh, Time, roll back and let me be a tiny child today. 



THE ONLOOKER 

I SIT by the window and look down at the street, 
three stories below. A motley crowd of men, and 
women, and little children hurries by all day: busy 
shoppers, laughing schoolmates, and discouraged look- 
ing workmen; yes, there are always throngs of people, 
and yet — It is lonely, this city! 

I can catch a glimpse of sky through the little space 
between the house-tops, but it is grey, unhappy looking 
sky; not at all like the cloud-flecked sky that smiles 
down upon one in the country. . . . The country. It 
sounds so homehke just to say that word, so homelike 
and friendly; and yet I left it happily, hopefully! I 
sold my heritage, my birthright for a mess of pottage; 
I called it the road to success and fame. I must stop 
talking this way; it makes me feel alone, and weepy. 
The house across the way is gloomy, just like all 
the other houses; and the Girl has not come to her 
window yet. I wonder if she is ill? She looked pale 
yesterday. Poor dear, perhaps she is lonely too. 

Here comes the Girl, She has a green bow at the 
neck of her little dark blue dress; I will get my opera 
glasses, and look at her again. Her face is only a 
dear blur without them. I see her clearly now, very 
clearly. Her hair is fluffed out so prettily, and a 
little curl is hanging down over her left ear. She is 
pushing it back now. Oh! Girl if you only knew how 
sweet it looked the other way, just hanging. Your 
eyes are red. Girl, and your nose is just a little pink. 
Have you been crying? And now you are going to 
write. You write every morning, little girl, just as I 
do. I thought at first that you were writing stories. 



THE ONLOOKER 65 

but you slip what you have written into an envelope 
(just as soon as you have finished), and then you tear 
it up, with sharp, nervous little jerks. Am I unpar- 
donably curious, little girl, or am I only lonely? 

The days creep along slowly, draggingly, as if a 
weight holds them back. I look for the Girl every 
morning, because I am growing to love her. I wonder 
who she writes to, and why she never sends any of 
the letters. Can it be a lover, or a father, or does she 
only write to amuse herself? I wonder. 

I went to see an editor, today. He was very nice; 
but, well he did not like my stories, perhaps some- 
time — Coming home in the car a baby smiled at 
me, and when I spoke to him in soft, blurred baby 
language, he held out his two chubby little arms to 
me; so his mother let me hold him for six whole blocks. 
She told me that she was glad of a rest! Though I 
only had him for a short while, it lessened the ache a 
little bit. 

The Girl put a scarlet colored geranium on her 
window sill today. It looked wonderfully well with 
her bright hair, and wild rose tinted cheeks. If I 
were only an artist, instead of a pretender at writing 
stories, I would paint you; there at your window, 
little girl! 

She wrote her letter, as usual, and put it in a long 
envelope. She looked at it so steadily that I thought 
surely it was going to be mailed, at last; but no, she 
tore it up into tiny shreds, even smaller than usual. 
But then she threw herself down in a chair and cried 
like a baby, with her head on the window sill. . . . 
Oh! Girl, dear little girl, if I could only smooth your 
hair, and comfort you, and tell you that I, the lonely 
lady across the way, love you. 

"Lonely lady," it sounds so artificial, and unreal; 
and yet, ah! God it is so true! 

The rain splashes down in great, round drops, but 



66 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

I am so excited that the weather does not bother me. 
Another room is occupied in the house opposite; the 
room just under the Girl's. It has never been used 
before, that is, since I have lived here. 

But I am getting all tangled up with my words. 
Guess who has taken the room? A fairy prince; who 
wears modern, very well cut clothes. He is dark, and 
oh! so good looking. His eyes seem twinkly and gay 
through my glass, but his mouth has a sad droop at 
the corners. He goes out every morning, and stays 
away until late at night, so he never comes in contact 
with the girl, who eats in her own room. I can see 
her cook in a little copper chafing dish. 

I wish that he would meet her, for I am sure that 
they would grow fond of each other. They couldn't 
help it! Some day I will write a story about them, 
and then, maybe, the editor will relent. 

I hate my room. The chairs are straight backed 
and horrid, and the curtains are made of stiff lawn 
that hangs in straight, ungraceful folds; even the 
pictures on the wall are thin narrow ones. When I 
look into my yellow mirror I see a face with a straight 
nose, and straight eyebrows, and straight hair. Oh! 
how I hate plain, vertical things. If I only had a curl 
over my left ear, just like the one you have, little girl! 
Perhaps I would be happier. 

A hand organ came down the street today. The 
school children loved it, and I dropped a five cent 
piece out of my window to the funny, forlorn little 
monkey. The hand organ boy took off his hat to me, 
and played some tunes, while the Man and the Girl 
who for once were both home, listened from the shadow 
of their curtains. The organ grinder played some 
very limp ragtime, but just as my head was beginning 
to spin, the god of music changed his mind; and 
softly, almost sweetly, the instrument began to play a 
plaintive little song. 



THE ONLOOKER 67 

*'Just a-wearyirC for you, 
All the time a-feeliti' blue — " 

I hummed the words over, and when the organ 
stopped with a dying wheeze, I clapped all by myself. 
Of course I wondered whether my 'cross the street 
neighbors liked my music, but when I glanced non- 
chalantly over at them I had a shock. The Girl was 
crying; with short, sharp, heart-breaking sobs, and 
the Man had shut his window. 

Little girl, have I unknowingly, clumsily, caused 
the organ man to hurt you? 

The Girl smiled at me today across the street that 
was suddenly filled with sunshine, country sunshine. 
The city is not so lonely when you get used to it! 

The organ man came by today, and looked up at 
my window, but I didn't give him anything, not even 
a round, red, copper penny. I hated to send the poor 
tired little monkey away with nothing, but I was afraid 
that the girl would feel hurt again, and cry. So 
pretty soon the organ grinder left, muttering Italian 
maledictions. Why should I care? 

The Man left today, but he only took a small bag, 
so I know that he intends to come back. I am glad, 
for if he truly left I would miss him. Poor Man, he 
looked discouraged. His hat was pulled down over 
his eyes, and his broad shoulders were bent. He may 
be lonely, too, like the rest of us. But why should a 
fairy prince be lonely? I saw some initials on his 
bag, and when I used my glass I could just make them 
out. The letters spell something; that is a sure sign 
that you will be rich and happy, sometime. Man, 
smile just a bit and think of the future. I wonder 
what his name is, so many, many names begin with 
the same letter. But what does it matter anyway, 
Man? Why should I know your name? 

I sold a story today. Perhaps that is why the 



68 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

earth is so happy, why the sun shines down so brightly 
through my narrow Httle strip of sky. I cashed my 
check and then I went shopping. I, too, bought a 
scarlet geranium, and a pretty bow for the neck of my 
dress. I wanted to buy a curling iron, but, oh! Girl, 
it would be almost sacrilegious for me to have a curl 
over my left ear. The good Lord never wanted me 
to be pretty, He only made me curious and interested 
in people. 

I am beginning to like the editor. He told me that 
my stories were improving, that they showed more 
heart, more interest. Girl, we know why they are 
better! The reason is (I will write it in tall letters), 
The world has ceased to be so lonely for me. 

If I only knew who you write to, dear, I would be 
quite content. Why don't you send the letters? 
Every morning when you seal the long envelope I am 
sure that the time has come; and then, just as my 
heart is beginning to feel happy and glad you tear the 
note up, poor little sad sheet of paper! And when 
you come back from the waste basket your eyes are 
red, and your tiny handkerchief is in your hand. 

So much has happened since I wrote yesterday that 
I hardly know where to begin. It was all so sudden, 
and unexpected, and as it should be! 

The Girl came to the window and wrote her letter, 
but her face was very pale, and her eyes were tear- 
stained. She sealed the note, and put it on the window 
sill; and then, yes, she began to cry again, with her 
head on the cold stone beside the flower. And I 
clenched my hands to keep from screaming; and 
prayed; for you, poor unhappy little girl. 

God must have heard me, for as I gazed across the 
dreary space at the rise and fall of your shoulders. He 
sent His messenger, a tiny playful breeze. It took 
the letter in noiseless, gentle, fingers, and fluttered it 
softly to the ground just at the feet of a hurrying man 



THE ONLOOKER 69 

with his hat pulled over his eyes, and a bag in his 
hand. In my surprise I jumped, and almost fell out 
of the window. It was the prince come home again, 
little girl. He noticed the white blowing thing at his 
feet and I saw him stoop to pick it up, and then. Girl, 
he did a curious thing. He kissed the long envelope 
very reverently, and he looked up. Girl, to see where it 
had come from. 

Just as he raised his eyes to your window little girl, 
you looked down; the color flooded your pale face, 
and your outflung arms knocked over the geranium. 
... A few minutes later I saw him up in your window. 
Girl; and (will you forgive me?) I saw him kiss you; 
first on the mouth and then on the little curl over 
your left ear. And you cried, big, happy, crystal 
tears. I turned my back, and put away my glasses, 
and, yes, I cried too. 

They went away this morning, together. The girl 
had on a pretty little hat, and she looked gay and 
happy, and blushy. The man held her arm, and I 
know that he wanted to kiss her again. 

I am trying to write a story, but every time I look 
across the street I feel homesick. The copper chafing 
dish is gone, and the scarlet geranium is broken. 

The landlady is putting a sign on the door. It says 
in bold, cross letters: 

"Rooms To Let." 

The sunshine is not golden today. It is grey, and 
gloomy, and forlorn. I hate the city, the awful city. 
Ah! how lonely I am! 



PROGRESS 

The cave men fought with their knotty fists, 

And clubs that were tipped with stone; 
With heads held high, and with fearless eye, 

They guarded their rights alone. 
They hacked at beasts that were huge and wild, 

That prowled where their stores were piled. 
And they died at last, and their spirits passed. 

While the War God sat back — and smiled. 

The years rolled by, and the archers came. 

With arrows, and pliant bows; 
They crouched in lines 'neath the mountain pines, 

And killed as the farmer mows. 
And all the spears of the armored knights, 

Flashed bright as a shining sea; 
And people died and their spirits cried, 

While the War God laughed in his glee. 

They fight today, and the bullets new. 

Are shaped like a needle fine. 
And cannons roar on the ocean shore, 

While blood flows away like wine. 
The airships flutter against the sun, 

To shoot at the frightened earth, 
And birdmen die in the heavy sky. 

While the War God screams in his mirth. 



TRUST 

Dead night before me — not a star, 

To shine upon me from afar; 

And not a tiny silver ray 

From some kind moon to light the way. 

And yet, the dark is soft and kind. 

And terrors in the road behind 

Are blotted out. And on my hand, 

I feel a pressure of command 

That leads me, lest my stubborn feet 

Should stumble, or should seek retreat. 

Why should I ask to know the way. 

Though I am led where shadows play 

With shadows, and where night winds talk? 

I close my eyes, and trust, and walk. 

I hear a river rushing by 

Beneath my feet; I wonder why 

I do not trip and stumble in — 

The bridge is narrow board, and thin — 

I feel the swish of brambles tear 

Against my dress and on my hair; 

But though I wish that I could see, 

The mystic hand that leadeth me 

Is kind, and guides me from afar, 

Through all the wood without a scar. 

And when at last I reach the plain, 

And dawn begins to come again, 

I see a city, shining bright. 

That drives away the thought of night. 



72 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

We earth-born folk who weep and moan. 

If we must take the path alone; 

Who ask to pierce the future dim 

That looms before us dread and grim; 

Who ask for candles in the night, 

That we may see a httle light; 

Who fling the unseen hand aside, 

And creep into the forest wide. . . . 

Perhaps a sudden breeze may blow. 

And snuff the candle's feeble glow. 

And oh! the brambles at our side, 

The river running swift and wide — 

Ah! God, we pray to ask that we 

May walk through all the dark — to Thee! 



ATTRACTIVENESS 

The two girls were getting dressed for a large dinner 
when I dropped in to call for them. It's fun to get 
into the habit of being early — you see and hear so 
many things. As I sat in the big cretonne-covered 
chair by the window, I heard a discussion that in- 
terested me a great deal. 

It had been a hot day. The twilight was falling all 
around us like a heavy cotton blanket — so heavy and 
stifling that things like party dresses, and ribbons, 
and large hairpins seemed unnecessary burdens. In 
the consciousness that my gown was new I tried to 
feel cool, but failed miserably. 

"How hot it is!" I sighed. The blonde girl who was 
struggling with a refractory hook paused for a moment 
and dabbed at her face with a dainty handkerchief. 

"Hot?" she queried sarcastically. "Of course it's 
hot. It's so hot that I don't care how I look or what 
I wear. See my hair? It's a wreck, but I don't care. 
See my dress? It needs pressing; but I wouldn't 
press it for anything on a night like this. It's a very 
fussy dinner, but I don't care if the King of England 
and the President of the United States are coming. 
It's hot, and I don't care how I look!" 

She paused breathlessly, and subconsciously I 
glanced at my other friend. She was standing in 
front of the mirror and as I looked at her I saw the 
grace of her dainty gown, the perfect neatness and 
charming simplicity of her slippers. While I feasted 
my eyes on her she paused in the work of rolling a 
rebellious lock of hair into a gleaming coil, and without 
turning her head she spoke to us. 



74 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

"You're all wrong, dear," she told the blonde girl 
gently. "All wrong. Even if it is a hot night and 
you are tired, do press the little dress. You might be 
sorry if you got over there and felt mussed up. Come 
here and I'll put a few tiny hairpins in the curly part 
around your forehead. They do wonders on a night 
like this. It's a girl's duty to be as attractive as 
possible, even in hot weather." 

With graceful, deft fmgers she was patting the 
pretty blonde head in front of a mirror — adding a pin 
or taking one away. Her slender fmgers smoothed a 
crumpled frill into some semblance of neatness, and 
her quick eye caught a tiny rip that she drew up with 
careful stitches. As she worked, I sat and tried to 
keep cool, and thought. 

There are narrow-minded people in this world who 
believe in discouraging signs of beauty on the ground 
that it produces conceit. I knew of a woman who 
braided her little daughter's hair in tight pigtails, and 
so discouraged a charming tendency to carl. Although 
at the time the young child did not object in the least, 
since she has grown up she often thinks that the 
proceeding was unnecessary in the extreme. More- 
over, the tendency to conceit was not crushed, for the 
girl wears many bumpy curl papers to bed every night 
and has a profusion of ringlets, despite the fact that 
her natural ones were spoiled in the making. 

Personally, I certainly like to see a girl well dressed. 
Not dressed in loud or immodest clothing, or in ex- 
tremely fashionable clothing, but dressed in clothes 
that fit, and are neat, with buttons and hooks on and 
fresh collars. Also I think that becoming dresses are 
no sign of conceit. 

Commuting on our suburban trains is not a very 
pleasant experience. Neither is it a clean one — for 
coal-dust and cinders are not conducive to neatness — 
but it is a very illuminating one. You see girls, 
hundreds of them, going to work in the big city. And 



ATTRACTIVENESS 75 

very few of the hundreds look neat every day. It's a 
hard thing to battle with the dust and the heat of the 
crowded trains, and I do not blame the girls who come 
to work with rather mussed collars, and straggling 
hair, and torn gloves. 

There is a girl whom I often see on the train. She 
is a very attractive girl, but you can see at a glance 
that she has made herself attractive by exerting a 
great deal of care on her personal appearance. Every 
morning when the train pulls into her station, people 
put down their papers and look for the girl, and when 
she comes in, radiant and well gowned, the passengers 
follow her with their eyes. As one little old lady said 
to me: "I love to watch her. She comes in like a 
fresh breeze with the fragrance of flowers in it." 

The duty of being attractive falls, I think, almost 
more heavily on the married women than it does on 
the girls. So often a woman will dress well and fix 
her hair becomingly before marriage, and seem to lose 
all interest in her personal appearance afterward. A 
great many romances lose the rose-tint of love because 
of sloppy kimonos and shapeless dinner dresses and 
tight, knobby hair-curlers. Divorces may result from 
a great many causes, but I think that perhaps half of 
them occur because the wife fails to be attractive in 
the privacy of her own home. 

Girls dear, and married girls, I am not trying to 
encourage the tiny spark of vanity that grows in every 
human heart, but I am trying to swell the tiny spark 
of self-respect that should grow in every human mind. 
If the gracious Father above had wanted us to be ugly, 
he would have made us without hair or teeth or com- 
plexions or eyelashes; but instead, he made almost 
every one with at least one attractive feature. If you 
are plain, I think that it is easy to acquire charm by 
the neatness and becomingness of your clothing. 
And if you are pretty, it is your duty to make the most 
of God's gift to you. 



A MELODY OF EASTER 

Three crosses black against the yellow sky-line, 

Three harrowed forms with pinioned hands and feet, 

And oh! a multitude of sinful people, 

That trample down the grass and flowers sweet. 

Three voices raised in dying supplication. 
Two of them shrinking from an awful fate — 

But oh! the third is loving, tender, hopeful. 
And in its tone there is no note of hate. 

Three souls that speed away from earth's short glory, 
Three pairs of eyes that search the Heavens dim, 

But only one that sees beyond the sunset, 
Only one heart that loves and praises Him. 

Three days, the gates of sepulchres are opened ! 

The lilies bloom and angels seem to say: 
"Joy to the world, and praise to the Redeemer, 

For Jesus Christ, the Lord, is risen today!" 



SMILE 

Don' yer cry — things ain't all wrong, 
Dry yer eyes an' smile, ma' honey. 
Try t' hum a bit o' song 
Think of sum'pin awful funny. 
Lose yer frown — it don't belong 
On yer face that should be sunny. 

What if all th' world is gray, 
Som'eres there's a sun a-shinin'; 
Don' yer care what people say, 
Don' yer waste yer time repinin' — 
Soon there'll be a brighter day. 
All clouds have a silver hnin'. 

Do yer troubles break yer heart? 

Sobbin' cannot mend it — sobbin' 

Only makes the soreness smart; 

Worse than toothache, thumpin', throbbin'; 

Only pulls yer world apart. 

All the joy o' daylight robbin'. 

Don' yer cry — the world's all right, 
God'U hold yer lonely hand, 
Through th' day and through th' night; 
On th' sea and on th' land; 
Things are comin' out all right. 
Honey — smile — and understand! 



A SONG OF LOVE 

To editors and artists the young poet with his lay 
is quite the joke of springtime, with its April sun and 
showers. And yet a poem of summertime is in my 
heart today — a poem full of rainbow tints, of song- 
birds and of flowers. Shall I begin "0 Springtime"? 
No, for that is obsolete; or shall I say "The robin red 
is swinging on the branch"? Or shall I say, "The 
perfume of the gentle breeze is sweet"; or that my heart 
is "full of light and joyousness" perchance? O poets 
all, in thought and deed, how shall I sing my song? 
The sun is sinking in the west, the shadows tremble 
long. And I am sitting at my desk, with nothing 
much to say; while on the wall the clock is letting 
minutes slip away. 

You wonder why they speak of it as "ringtime"? 
Because the blue of tender skies above, and all the 
gentle breezes of the springtime are murmuring a 
million words of love. And when the April twilight 
has descended and fireflies are flitting through the air, 
the meaning of the word is comprehended, for lovers 
fill the country everywhere. They linger by the 
pasture bars, confiding, or in the crowded city parks 
they walk, with never thought of subterfuge or hiding 
from others all the sweetness of their talk. 

Long, long ago, when all the world was youthful, 
when dragons roamed the forest and the plain; when 
knights were brave and happy, fierce and truthful; 
and followed in the monarch's golden train; when 
ladies dressed in satin and in laces, and diamonds held 
their long and lovely hair, when witches walked abroad 



A SONG OF LOVE 79 

with solemn faces and tried tlieir best to make the 
world less fair; there lived a little maiden in the wild- 
wood, a little girl with lovely eyes of blue, with spirit 
that was brave, and heart so mild, good, and tender 
that the sunshine filtered through. She lived alone, 
for she was poor and humble, and blessed with little 
of the world's great store; and yet she wore her rags 
without a grumble, and never wished aloud for any 
more. She was a friend to all the beasts that rambled 
through forest dales or over mountain plain. She 
even loved the little snakes that scrambled beneath 
the leaves, and never wished them pain. She lived 
alone, contented in her hovel, and never craved the 
beauties of a court, where ladies danced and read the 
latest novel, and never did the thinking that they 
ought. And yet, untaught, unkempt, her very beauty 
was brighter than the glowing of the stars; for very 
often sweetness, care, and duty, will triumph where a 
thoughtless life brings scars. 

It was the springtime and the ground was soggy; 
the flowers peeped beneath the crumbled moss. The 
morning air was dull — a little foggy, and in the brook 
the fish began to toss. For it was springtime and the 
earth, awaking, was filled with joy and perfume and 
with love. The trees themselves, once bare, were now 
partaking of certain sweetness from the air above. 

A tall young knight was riding through the valley. 
His bridle hung quite limply in his hand. His mind 
was far from any fight or sally, or any tournament on 
sea or land. And as he rode along through trees that 
thickened, he fingered with his hand a broidered glove, 
and somehow, in the wood, his pulses quickened. 
"In spring a young man's fancy turns to love." He 
did not heed the horse's troubled walking; he did not 
know that pitfalls lay before; for in his ears a fairy 
voice was talking that said, "Go on, adventures lie in 
store!" 



80 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

The wood grew darksome; it was thick and scary. 
And suddenly the horse, with snort of dread, tripped in 
a hole that lay 'neath grasses hairy, and threw the 
knight on his uncovered head. And then for him, the 
joy of all the forest grew black. And as he drifted 
far away, there came a voice (he thought it was the 
fairy), and "Are you hurt?" he thought he heard it 
say. He fell asleep and dreamed (for he was fainting), 
and in his dream felt water on his brow; so with his 
fevered fancy he fell painting the reason for its being 
there, and how it reached him, then his heavy eyes 
awaking, he gave a sudden gasp of pure delight. He 
saw a vision that his mind partaking would call a 
dream of heaven gleaming bright. He tried to think, 
and heard his own voice saying — "Are you a magic 
vision, lady fair? Upon my head your fingers have 
been straying and on my cheek I feel your waving 
hair. Are you alive or do you come to haunt me? 
Or can you be an angel from the sky?" "Oh, no," 
the lady answered, "do not taunt me. I am a little 
woodland maiden. I am not an angel or a vision grand; 
it was my touch you felt upon your forehead. And 
on your cheek 'twas my unworthy hand." 

And then the knight, his weakness all forgotten, 
sat up upon the mossy forest floor. He noted that her 
dress was made of cotton, and ragged where the grasp- 
ing briars tore. And then he took her hand in his 
quite softly, and whispered gently in her shell-like ear, 
"Come back with me unto my lonely castle, because 
my heart is crying for you, dear." 

(The legend tells us that the little fairies, with all 
the magic that their wands could bring, had made the 
marriage of the knight and maiden. But I'm inclined 
to think it was the spring.) 

sun so golden bright with joy of morning, and 
heaven blue with angel shining eyes and song-birds 
that awake us at the dawning with music that is rising 



A SONG OF LOVE ' 81 

to the skies! little blossoms creeping up, so tiny, 
and trees with sap of life that flows anew; and stars 
that gleam at evening time, so shiny that fairy tales 
seem very nearly true. springtime, see the old 
stuff I am using! A while ago I called it obsolete, and 
yet the words are hardly wrong for choosing, when all 
the world is radiant and sweet. 

Let wise ones say that I am young and foolish and 
that my words stream onward in a flood. The golden 
world is lying all before me, and oh, the joy of spring 
is in my blood! 



THE QUESTION 

You ask me if I love you, 

Could I really say you nay? 
Not when you look at me, and smile, 

And kiss my doubts away. 
For in your eyes I see the light 

Of Paradise above, — 
You know these things, my darling, 

Yet you ask me, do I love? 

You ask me will I ever cease, 

To love you as I do? 
Not while the sun is shining 

From a sky of tender blue. 
For when the earth is cold and dead 

And all the love has flown 
My heart will still be yours to hold; 

And I will keep your own. 



BLACK-EYED SUSANS 

"He loves me!" murmured the little maid, 
"And he loves me not!" she said, 
As the petals fell 'neath her baby hand 
To the grass, where they withered dead. 
And the summer sun from the heavens' arch 

Gleamed down on the solemn pair. 
And the angels smiled as they watched the child 

Who had never a pain or care. 

The flowers have crumbled away to dust, 

And the little maid's hair is gray, 

And her life is too sordid and full of woe 

To stand in the sun and play. 

But memories come of the summertime, 

And her heart has a tiny spot 
Which remembers the day when she used to say: 

"He loves me — he loves me not!" 



AT THE DYING OF THE YEAR 

The days are short now and very dark in the late 
afternoons. Leaves — the silent messengers of a bitter 
season — come fluttering down, a wonderful mixture 
of gold and scarlet and russet. The mountains, off 
in the distance, change from green to red and from red 
to a dreary burnt-out brown, and the turquoise skies 
of an Indian summer fade to a dull, sad gray. 

For the year is nearing its close and the season is 
dying. 

I was taking a walk one day through the dreary 
autumn countryside — all alone in the deepening dusk. 
And somehow I began to wonder about life — in its 
twiUght time. And I thought: 

"How gloomy and terrible it must be when one is 
old! And how cheerless the world must seem!" 

Just then a band of radiant color crept across the 
sky, for it was sunset. Delicate rose-pink and gold 
swept the grayness far into the mist of a forgotten 
memory. The brown leaves piled on the ground 
seemed to take on a sudden radiance, and the bare 
trees were glowing like bronze columns. Steadily the 
light grew until all the world was as softly shaded and 
glowing as the heart of an opal. Then suddenly the 
glory faded and the sky grew dark. 

I hurried on, for the night was very near and I wanted 
to reach my home. As I hurried, I tried to analyze my 
feelings. 

"This," I thought, "is Hke the end of life. The 
dull gray of twilight, with a burst of color at the end, 
and then darkness." For the sunset glory had left me 
strangely crushed — a small protesting atom drifting 
through a million miles of cold, unsympathetic space. 



AT THE DYING OF THE YEAR 85 

I reached the door of my home, but I paused on the 
threshold and glanced out once more into the dark of 
the night time. It was very calm and peaceful. The 
trees were scarcely distinguishable in their ugly outlines 
and the leaves on the ground might have been almost 
any color. And then I looked up into the black arch 
of the sky. There, all alone, a tiny star twinkled back 
at me — calm and unafraid. So I went into the house 
strangely comforted. 

For though the sunset color may change to dark- 
ness, a star, the star of hope and love, will rise and 
gleam through eternity. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes describes an elderly man, 
the only one left of his generation, as the last leaf upon 
the bough. He says in a verse of his poem: 

And he shakes his feeble head, 
That it seems as if he said, 
" They are gone.'' 

Perhaps if my sunset and my twilight and my star 
spoke truly to me, the old man did not say: 

"They are gone." 

Maybe he smiled deep in the bottom of his soul and 
said: 

"They are waiting." 

For, even then, his star of hope was shining behind 
some sheltering cloud. 

One day when I was very small, I went out into the 
woods to hunt for chestnuts. Three little girls went 
with me, all armed with tiny baskets. On the way 
we stopped by our pet violet bed and unthinkingly 
stooped down to look for blossoms. But the place 
that had been a riot of color and perfume in May 
was a dried-up bunch of leaves in November. 

Little Grace, the smallest one of our party, sat down 
and began to cry from disappointment. 



86 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

"Our pretty vi'lets are gone away," she wailed, "and 
we can't pick them any more." 

But Betty, the oldest one, had no time to waste on 
tears and unprofitable sentimentality. She was fast 
filling her little basket with the fat, brown chestnuts 
that were strewn over the withered grass. 

"Baby!" she sniffed at the sobbing child. "Stop 
crying and pick up these nice nuts. 'Course they're 
not so pretty as flowers, but they taste great!" Sud- 
denly she turned around and faced the little girl. 
"Why do you s'pose those flowers are dead?" she said 
earnestly. "It's 'cause God wanted 'em in heaven." 

It was a pretty thought that the tiny girl voiced so 
simply. A thought almost too beautiful to realize, 
but it was — it is true. For when the autumn of life 
comes we must remember that the flowers of life's 
springtime have not disappeared into a black, unfath- 
omed future. They have only gone because God 
wants them with him — in heaven, giving instead the 
"season of mists and the mellow fruitfulness" of the 
soul that has learned life's lessons well. 

I was calling one day — calhng on a httle lady who 
had long since passed her three score and ten years. 
The season was late autumn and the little lady's 
thoughts matched the world. 

"I hate this time of year," she told me almost 
crossly. "I hate it more than I can tell. It is so 
hopeless — and sad. The trees are standing up like 
cold, shivering ghosts, and the flowers and leaves are 
dead. Even the sky is gloomy and the air has a mist 
in it. I love the springtime and the summer, but, oh, 
I wish that the autumn would never come!" 

I left the little lady still mourning over the Lord's 
seasons, a frown on her usually sweet face. And as I 
walked down the bare avenue I thought of an almost 
similar scene with my grandmother. 



AT THE DYING OF THE YEAR 87 

When a girl once spoke to her about the dreary 
autumn weather, she said: 

"My dear, this weather isn't one bit cheerless. 
Why, the flowers and the leaves are just asleep — 
waiting for the springtime to come. To me the autumn 
is one of the most beautiful seasons of the year, for, if 
the earth never slept, how could there be an awaken- 
ing — a resurrection?" 

For always at the end of the year comes the wonder- 
ful sunset and the gleaming star. 

When the autumn time of your life is here 

And the blossoms are turning brown; 
When the saddest season of all the year 

Is sending a message down. 
When the last leaf blows from a withered bough. 

And rests on the frosty sod — 
Send your prayers up high past the boundless sky. 

Till they rest at the throne of God. 



THE BALLAD OF HAPPINESS 

A GREAT king sat on his golden throne, 

With jewels in his royal hand, 
His eyes glanced out of the window wide, 

Out over his perfect land. 
And far away as a man could see, 

The fields and the bounding tide 
Stretched fairylike to the deep blue sky; 

But the great king frowned — and sighed. 

The council sat at the monarch's feet. 

Six men that were brave and true, 
And one spoke up to the frowning king — 

"My Lord, are you feeling blue? 
Your land is fair, and your crops are good, 

And your people are strong as steel. 
And yet you groan with a weary glance; 

Pray — what is the grief you feel?" 

The king looked down at his cheerful men, 

And his eyes were dull with dread; 
"A thought has haunted my brain," said he, 

"From morn till I go to bed. 
For jewels I have, and a throne I have. 

And strength of my heart and mind. 
But happiness I would own," he said, 

"And that I can never find!" 

The wise men looked at their reigning king. 
And, "Lord of our hearts," they cried, 

"Your hosts shall go to a foreign shore 
Far over the restless tide. 



THE BALLAD OF HAPPINESS 89 

To seek the sprite that your weary heart 

Has craved through the sorry years; 
A king must laugh and a king must smile 

When a nation mourns with tears." 

They sent their troops to a stranger land, 

And their ships to a foreign bay; 
They searched in homes of the very rich, 

And huts that were made of clay. 
Their gold they spent in a fruitless search, 

While their faces grew old, and lined; 
But the king sat back on his golden throne 

With his head on his hands — and pined. 

One day the king with his shining court, 

Rode over a new made field, 
And far away stood a farmer man. 

With tools for his hand to wield. 
And the king climbed down from his prancing horse — 

His crown on his worried head — 
And swift he called to the farmer man, 

"I will plow your field," he said. 

The shafts they put in his untaught hands. 

That were soft, and as white as snow. 
And the farmer man with a frightened speech. 

Told quickly the way to go. 
And the king, who never before had worked, 

Pushed hard with a dreary mirth. 
And his well shod feet trod his God's own soil, 

As he followed the yielding earth. 

The day was bright and the sky was blue, 
. And the scent of the flowers fair 
Swept by the king as he trudged along, 
And sniffed at the morning air. 



90 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

And as he worked as a man should work, 

In thanks for a goodly land, 
He saw for the first time Happiness, 

In reach of his eager hand. 

For, people all, though a man may be, 

As rich as a reigning king, 
With jewels, and gold, and with sweetmeats rare, 

And birds that are taught to sing. 
If he idle be, he may sit all day. 

On a throne that is bright and fair; 
And his heart will sigh, and his eyes grow dim, 

For Happiness won't be there. 



IN MEMORIAM 

Margaret E. Sangster, Born February 22, 1838 
Died June 4, 1912 

A SHADOW dark against the summer sky; 

A murmuring of angels up above; 
The sound of wings, as little birds that fly 

Away from earth. In spite of all the love 
You bore us, still you could no longer stay. 

The years fly swiftly on, and now we see 
The coming of a once so happy day. 

It seems as if your presence ought to be 
Here on the earth — to hear the earth's good will - 

Your birthday! Ah, I see you in your place! 
Your gentle, loving voice, I hear it still; 

And smiles kiss teardrops as I dream your face. 
Ah! though your soul has gone to rest above, 
The world still knows the sunshine of your love. 



"KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE" 

Skies softly blue overhead, and away in the country 
meadows that are brightly green to walk upon. Woods 
that are cool and dusky and mysterious, and flowers 
that are radiant, gorgeous things. Stars that come 
out at night to glow in a sky of deepest sapphire, and a 
sun that is golden and warm and friendly. June with 
all of its witchery and enchantment and love! 

We were sitting in the sun — the bride-to-be, the 
schoolgirl, and myself — all engaged in our typical 
occupations. The bride-to-be was embroidering con- 
ventionalized orange blossoms on a bit of the finest 
linen, the schoolgirl was studying French, and I was 
scribbling at some verses. Overhead in the greenness 
of a graceful tree a little bird sang happily to itself. 

"J'aime, tu aimes, il aime," droned the schoolgirl 
softly to herself. Suddenly her book shut with a 
snap, and she gazed up into the tree. "It's a blue- 
bird!" she exclaimed. 

The bride-to-be took a careful stitch in the white 
linen before she answered: 

"Go on with your work," she commanded gently; 
"it's commencement very soon now, and if you don't 
pass your French — " She paused significantly. 

The schoolgirl flushed a bit, and then with a defiant 
little toss she threw the book just out of reach. 

"I can't help it," she declared, "the world's too 
beautiful to study in. It's June — and there's a blue- 
bird in the tree. French can wait." 

The bride-to-be took another dainty stitch. "I 
don't blame you," she said. "I wouldn't be doing a 



"KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE" 93 

thing myself, but the end of the week comes so soon, 
and these things must be finished for the wedding." 

Vaguely I scribbled on with my verse. At the end 
of the page I stopped abruptly. 

"What," I questioned, "rhymes with silver?" 

"Nothing, I guess," yawned the schoolgirl; "don't 
write any more today. I want to talk to you." 

With a sigh of relief I dropped my pencil. "Go on," 
I said, "talk." 

The schoolgirl gazed soulfully off into the distance, 
large black-lashed eyes dreamy and vague. The 
silence drifted around us like a rainbow-hued cloak, 
and the bluebird began to sing again in his green re- 
treat. With a little start the schoolgirl came back to us. 

"In ten days," she confided, "I graduate — if I 
pass my exams. Then it's Europe, and my music, and 
the whole world before me." 

"Then it's decided," I spoke lazily, "and you're 
really truly going to do it?" 

"I'm really truly going to do it," answered the girl 
eagerly. Her hands, with their long, slender fingers 
of a musician, ran softly over the grass as if she were 
playing a scale. "I'm going to be well known some 
time, girls — you'll be proud of me, maybe." 

"We're proud of you now." It was the bride-to-be 
who spoke. "We couldn't get along without you, dear. 
Who else would be able to play the wedding march for 
me as you will?" With a loving hand she patted the 
curly head. 

"That's nothing." The schoolgirl flushed self-con- 
sciously. "Who wouldn't play Lohengrin wonderfully 
for you — you darling!" Eagerly her hand found the 
soft one on her head and held it tightly. 

The little bird swayed perilously out on a shaking 
twig and gave a chirp of dismay. Interestedly we 
watched him flutter back to a firmer seat. In the 
pause that followed I broke in. 



94 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

"I'm jealous," I told them. "Here you are, both of 
you, doing something new and exciting, while I must 
stay at home and hear from you every year or so. It 
will be lonely with one of you married and the other in 
Europe." 

"You've got your work," the schoolgirl told me, 
"and you have bushels of other friends. Oh, don't 
say that you'll miss me. I feel positively homesick 
already. I go in such a short time!" 

The bride-to-be was sewing steadily, carefully, and 
under her hands the piece of linen was becoming a 
thing of marvelous beauty. 

"You won't miss me," she murmured thoughtfully 
as she puckered her forehead over an especially diffi- 
cult stitch, "and then — I won't be far away. You 
must come and visit me in the Little House." Her 
glance, dream-filled, wandered away to the white road 
that crept like a narrow ribbon over the hill. "We 
bought the dining-room furniture yesterday," she told 
us. "It's the prettiest — heavy, solid-looking chairs, 
and a low sideboard with places for grandmother's 
pewter candlesticks, and a flat shiny table that you can 
see your face in. I love it. I'm crazy, girls, for you to 
see the Little House." 

"The Little House!" I spoke rather jealously. 
"It's always the Little House now. You never care 
for us any more, not half as much as you do for your 
little house." 

"That's right," the schoolgirl chimed in, "and after 
next week, why, the Little House will just up and 
swallow you and we'll never see you again — hardly. 
You won't even come to my commencement exercises." 

The bride-to-be laughed softly. "Precious babies," 
she said, "to be jealous about me and my house, and 
my (with a blush) husband. Why, honey, I'll come to 
your commencement, and years after I'll come to your 
concerts in Carnegie Hall. Even if I don't see Margaret 



"KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE" 95 

often I can read her articles and think about her. 
Why, we'll be as much together as ever." 

The schoolgirl winked the moisture from her eyes 
and picked up her discarded French book from the 
ground. Her voice trembled a bit as she began her 
conjugations. 

"J'aime," she recited slowly. Then suddenly her 
face cleared. "That's it!" she told us excitedly. "It 
seems hateful to say good-by to all of our good times, 
but I love it. Every time I see a piano, every time I 
play a note, every time I think of the future, I feel 
happy. Music — it's the greatest thing in the world!" 

The bride-to-be was not listening. With eyes fas- 
tened on the road, she was swiftly folding up her work. 

"Here comes Bob," she exclaimed softly, while a 
lovely rose color crept over her cheeks. "I'll go to 
meet him," she said. 

The bluebird sang in the tree, and the sunlight fell 
in ripples on the grass. The schoolgirl looked over the 
hill with ambitious eyes, and down on the road a dark- 
coated arm encircled a white gown. 

"The greatest thing in the world!" I murmured to 
myself. 

Skies softly blue overhead, and away in the country, 
meadows that are brightly green to walk upon. Woods 
that are cool and dusky and mysterious, and flowers 
that are radiant, gorgeous things. Stars that come out 
at night to glow in a sky of deepest sapphire, and a 
sun that is warm and golden and friendly. June with 
all of its witchery and enchantment and love! 



A WISH 

If every child in all the world each morning gave a 

smile 
To some one else, the earth would glow and twinkle 

all the while, 
And all the grass would brighter grow, and all the sea 

would sing, 
And mountains high would kiss the sky. 
And winds would perfume bring. 

Ah! there would never be a trial. 
If every child on earth would smile. 

If every child in all the world said 'something every 

day 
To help some sufferer along life's dull and cheerless way; 
Then tear-dimmed eyes would gleam with hope, and 

hearts would fill with love. 
And rainbows bright with holy light. 
Would glow from God above. 

Ah ! yes, if every child would say, 
Some word of comfort every day. 

If every child in all the world at evening breathed a 

prayer. 
The little thoughts with fairy wings would flutter 

through the air. 
And all along the city street, and down the country 

lane. 
An angel throng would drift along. 
Like cooling fragrant rain. 

And all the sleeping land would know — and all 

the land would care — 
If every child in all the world at evening breathed 
a prayer. 



THE MOTHER OF A HERO 

A CRASH, a flash, a momentary triumph, 

The blaze of sun from out a sky of blue; 
And someone lies, a heap of huddled garments. 

With heart now still that once sang brave and true. 
A blur of smoke against the mountains rugged, 

A buzzard winging slowly through the sky, 
And miles away a little mother — waiting — 

And praying to the Gracious God on high. 

A scream, a stream of life blood ebbing swiftly, 

A pair of eyes that close in endless sleep; 
A bullet sharp and sudden in its coming, 

That leaves a wound so horrible and deep. 
A paper, printed large in glowing headlines. 

That says, "He left a mother, next of kin," 
A country's loud approval of a hero. 

And one small woman sobbing through the din. 

A fear, a tear, a pair of hands clasped tightly, 

A mind that sees a sturdy little boy, 
A tiny baby face, and roguish dimples, 

A sound of laughter filled with childish joy. 

A nation's hero, dying first — with glory, 
A man in spirit — though a boy in years, 

A soldier shot in battle, fighting bravely, . . . 
A little mother smiling through the tears. 



IN SEARCH OF VACATION LAND 

A HURRYING throng of girls dashed past me, suit 
cases banging together, tennis rackets slipping from 
overcrowded hands, laughter darting from eyes and lips. 
And as they crowded up the steps of the train that 
puffed with short, nervous snorts, as if anxious to be 
away, the last girl turned with her hand on the door 
knob, and looked back through the station, which was 
filled to overflowing with struggling, pushing humanity 
in search of Vacation Land. And as she looked, I 
heard her sigh ever so softly, and say to her friends: 

"How nice it is to be going away! I hate the city — 
the horrid city!" 

And I knew at the sight of her face that it was time 
to go away. For there were lines, faintlj/- drawn, ner- 
vous lines, about the young mouth; and the great dark 
eyes took in only the tired-looking, discouraged travel- 
ers and failed to see the romance of the place. For 
there is romance everywhere if one looks for it, even in 
a crowded railway station. 

I sat down and watched the people file by — people 
of every race and class. And as I watched, an unreal 
feeling seemed to come over me; a feeling that I was 
all alone in an enormous amphitheater watching a 
thrilling scene from the drama of life. 

A lady came down the platform to the ticket-office, 
followed by three boys with tan-colored, close-cropped 
heads. The eldest was clothed in an obviously new 
suit, while his smaller brothers wore cast-off clothes. 
They were victims of the tragedy of being "smaller." 
Each chubby hand grasped a banana, and each mouth 
was opened in a wide grin. The mother was talking 
to the ticket agent. 



IN SEARCH OF VACATION LAND 99 

"He's only six," she announced, pointing to the 
second boy. "Yes, I know he looks older, but he 
ain't, are you, honey? There, child, don't answer with 
your mouth full. 'Tain't manners." But the agent, 
with a bored air, was motioning her away. 

A colored porter came by with a wheel chair, which 
he was pushing gently, almost reverently, before him. 
In it a Httle lady was seated complacently, soft lips 
smiling, eyes alive with excitement, silver curls quiver- 
ing around a small Dresden china face. 

A whisper sounded beside me and I recognized the 
voice that a moment before had been arguing at the 
ticket window. The mother was talking to her eldest son. 

"How happy she looks," came the whisper, "and 
how sweet! Jus' for all the world like a queen or — 
somebody's grandmother." 

And I smiled through a rather misty feeling about the 
eyes. For I had just noticed that the dainty, patrician 
little hand grasped a pair of crutches. 

Two college boys came rushing in and dashed up to 
a train that was just pulling out. A banjo case was 
slung from the shoulder of one of them, and the other 
dragged a sullen-looking bulldog by a chain that seemed 
just about ready to break. Hot and crimson-faced, they 
sprinted down the platform and crawled up the steps of 
the last car, where they sank exhausted among a pile of 
bags and magazines and howling puppy. And they were 
still sitting there, gasping wildly, as the train with ac- 
celerated speed dashed out of sight around a curve. 

Then I heard shrill voices and excited laughter from 
the farthest door of the depot, and glancing around, 
I saw a throng of children, perhaps fifty of them. They 
were poor looking children, with hats awry, paper 
bundles half open, and shoes torn, but they looked 
happy, for they were going to the country. My glance 
went upward to the smiling, rather anxious face of the 
lady in charge and then I recognized her. She was one 
of the Mont-Lawn teachers. 



100 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

"We're hurrying for the train," she explained, "ever 
so fast, but at best it seems to be mighty slow work. 
Mary's shoe is always coming untied, little Jerry has 
lost his hat three times, and William had to get a drink 
of water or, he declared, he would simply choke to 
death ! " And she nodded good-by to me, and marshaled 
her small charges into some semblance of order. 

It was now almost time for my own train to start, so 
I reluctantly gathered my things together and clamb- 
ered aboard the fast-crowding car. There was some 
one in every seat, and so, after a minute of hesitation, 
I sat down beside a girl who was looking out of the 
window. Her pale face was tired-looking, and seemed 
very childish against the dark of her softly-coiled hair. 
She glanced at me perfunctorily, and when I smiled, 
her lips curved in a delicious little Cupid's bow. Then 
she glanced out of the window again, but as the train 
started she turned to me with a veritable rush of words. 

"Do you know," she murmured joyously, "that I'm 
going on my vacation, and that it's two whole weeks in 
the country — at home. I haven't' seen them since 
Christmas, and now the blueberries are ripe so we can 
have pies — mother's pies. And when I go to bed at 
night it won't be in a white iron, hired bed. It'll be in 
great-grandfather's four-poster that he made himself, 
and mother'll tuck me in! Mother ..." Her eyes 
grew dreamy for a moment, and then her whole face 
lit up with a wonderful smile, while her tiny hand 
rested for a moment on my sleeve. "Oh!" she cried, 
"I'm so happy. It's vacation time, and I'm going 
home!" 

Where are the fairies we used to know, 

And the castles we built to stand. 
That wavered and broke like a bubble thrown 

By a careless, unskilful hand? 
If we drop our care we may find them therCt 

In the sunny Vacation Land. 



LAD 0' MINE 

When the summer comes a-flying on its green and 
azure wings, 
And the mountains kiss the sky-hne in the misty 
gray of dawn; 
When the sunshine flutters softly with the quiet joy it 
brings, 
And the perfume of the rose buds sweeps across the 
velvet lawn; 
When the grasses long are mingled with the daisies 
close together 
And the river flickers brightly with its opalescent 
shine; 
When the joy of life is singing through the happy 
June-time weather, 
Ah ! then my heart cries toward you, and I miss you, 
lad o' mine. 

Oh! the woods are filled with shadows softly melting 
to each other, 
And the little birds are singing — singing love songs 
to the sky; 
And a tiny snake is crawling through the leaves that try 
to smother 
Its little shining body, and its wicked beady eye. 
Oh! the joy of all the world is fresh — and living, 
breathing, knowing. 
And the sap is running swiftly in the hemlock and 
the pine. 
But all the love of nature passes by — for I am knowing 
That your face is here before me, and I want you, 
lad o' mine. 



THE KING AND THE BEGGAR 

He sat upon his golden throne 
In all his robes of state, alone; 

And as he sat, he sighed. 
And though he drank from silver cup, 
And at his word a host rose up. 

His heart within him cried. 
And though his face was bright and fair, 
A specter touched his shining hair; 

And at the touch he died. 

And yet he was a reigning king. 

With all that gold could buy; 
And he was kind, and good, and young; 

God, why did he die? 

He sat upon the snowy ground. 
And drew his ragged coat around, 

To fight the bitter cold. 
His feet and hands were cracked and bare; 
No hat was on his grizzled hair; 

That, even, had been sold. 
He had no friend to press his hand; 
He was a stranger in the land; 

And he was wan and old. 

For he was just a beggar gray, 

And oft his heart would sigh; 
And oft his lips would murmuringly 

Plead God to let him die. 

God! we question not thy will; 
And yet the query, never still. 

Echoes from sea to sky; 
And we shall always want to know 
Why beggars live mid want and woe, 

While kings grow sick and die ! 



ONLY A DOG 

A LITTLE boy sat in a corner sobbing his heart out in 
broken, wheezing gasps; and as the arc Hghts from 
above shone down on his tousled, hatless Httle head, 
he bhnked his eyes, eyes bloodshot and tearfilled, and 
in his little boy heart wished that he was dead. For 
he was only a small, unloved waif, and he was adrift 
in a thoughtless, cold-hearted city. 

A fat red-headed urchin passed by with a package 
of papers held under his arm, and glanced noncha- 
lantly into the corner: 

"Aw! chee," he yelled in derision, "y' baby y'. 
BalHn' agin, are yez? An' jus' because we won't let a 
kid like youse sell poipers on our beat. Shut up 'er 
I'll set th' gang on yez!" and he passed on, scorn in 
the tilt of his freckled nose, pride of race in his erect 
carriage. But the little boy caught his breath more 
sharply than ever, and sank back deeper into the shad- 
ows. For he was a newsboy, smaller than the rest; 
cherubic, Italian; with all the mystery of the south in 
his fathomless eyes, all of its music in his soft name, 
Giovanni. And it was because he was an alien, a stranger 
to the ways of a city, that he seemed to intrude with 
the other boys, and was beaten, and sold no papers. 
For boys, very often unconsciously, are more cruel 
than a stranger can realize. 

Papers, five or six of them, lay by the child's side, 
but he made no attempt to sell them. Pat, and 
Tommy, and Sam, and all of the rest had their own 
special routes, and to "butt in" was to get "licked"; 
but in spite of it all, when Giovanni struggled at last 



104 FRIENDS O' MINE 

to his feet, his head was held high, and his Up did not 
quiver. Bravely, unflinchingly he met the glare of 
the coldly lighted, friendless streets. But many a 
lady drew her skirts a little closer as the soiled, ragged 
child passed; and many a man with children at home, 
comfortably sleeping, muttered something about "little 
foreign devil" and shifted his eyes from the appeal in 
the eager baby face. And Giovanni sighed, for he 
thought of the sunny homeland, where eyes smiled, 
and hearts were kind. And he whispered to himself: 

"AH! if I but had a frien', one frien' in this coun- 
tree!" 

A little stirring at his heels became noticeable, but 
the child did not turn until he felt a small, soft body 
thud gently against his legs; and then he saw, shivering 
with fright, a tiny dog, really only a puppy in age, 
looking up at him with a piteous appeal shining out of 
a pair of sore looking, brown eyes. With a soft exclama- 
tion the little homeless boy knelt beside the tiny friend- 
less dog, and lifted it gently in his arms. And the 
puppy, feeling at last a ray of hope in its little dog 
heart, wagged its short stump of a tail, and licked the 
dirty little face bending over it. 

So when the boy went to seek his bed, in a packing 
box filled with excelsior, he took the little dog with him. 
There in the only home that he knew he reveled over 
his treasure. And though the puppy was very com- 
monplace, very plebeian, to the excited child he was 
perfect; dirty white coat, brown spots, sore eyes and 
many less beautiful details. For the white coat was 
soft and warm, and the brown spots were round and 
large, and the sore eyes were as full of love as the eyes 
of a puppy could be. Giovanni christened the new 
acquisition to his family in fluent Itahan: 

"Thy name shall be Tony, little dog," he murmured 
sleepily, "after my father who is dead. And I shall 
love thee much, and thou, too, shalt love me!" But 



ONLY A DOG 105 

the little dog only barked faintly and wagged its tail 
against the side of the box. 

The next morning, after a frugal breakfast of bread 
crusts, Giovanni started out to sell his papers, with 
hope high in his heart, and Tony near by at his heels. 
And whenever a boy passed, and called out a mocking 
word, the child straightened his back and marched on 
unheedingly, for he knew that a friend followed close 
at his feet. At last some one loved him! 

So the days went on; some golden, prosperous days, 
in which perhaps he made the enormous sum of ten or 
fifteen cents; some gloomy, heartbreaking days, in 
which no papers were sold, and the lean, gray wolf, 
who is always hungry, howled at the opening of the 
packing case. And when there was plenty of sausage, 
and macaroni, and bread, Giovanni and Tony fell 
asleep together in the excelsior; comfortable and sati- 
ated; and when there was only one dirty crust, the boy 
and the dog divided evenly and sat shivering into the 
wee small hours. But they were happy, in a way, and 
they loved each other with that strange, tender love 
that binds even the most heartless criminal to his dog. 

And then at last came a day, when all was dark, and 
hungry, and hopeless, and there were no papers sold; 
and then another day when the last crust had been 
eaten, and there were no more pennies for the latest 
edition. And on the third day a pale little boy with 
dark rings under his eyes; and a thin little dog with 
every rib showing through his tightly draw skin 
started out in search of work, or plunder, or anything 
that meant food. 

And as, weak and weary, they tramped together 
down the long hard streets, people spoke about their 
mussed up appearance, and wondered why the child 
didn't wash his face. But nobody offered to help a 
little boy in trouble! 

All went well until they reached a crowded crossing, 



106 FRIENDS O' MINE 

however, and there as the child paused on the curb, 
the puppy, reckless for the first time in its short life, 
dashed, in a crazy puppy fashion, into the gap. And 
a huge red automobile, careening madly through space, 
never noticed the hurrying white body that went down 
with one wild yelp under its heavy, merciless wheels. 
But the huge car drew to a standstill as a little boy's 
voice shrieked: 

"Tony!" 
and a thin little slip of a child detached himself from 
the crowd, and fell, crying, on his knees, beside the 
already cold form of the bruised and bleeding puppy. 

"What is the matter?" asked a musically languid 
voice in the tonneau, and a pretty, patrician face 
peered out from the side of the car. A burly police- 
man stepped up, admiration shining from his eyes. 

"Please, ma'am," he muttered ingratiatingly, "it's 
only a dog! Belonged to the little wop, here." 

"Ah!" smiled the lady sweetly, "I thought that 
perhaps a baby had been run over," she laughed, hght- 
heartedly, "only a dog, you say? Here, Chester — '* 
to her rather silent escort, who sat tugging at his care- 
fully waxed mustache, "make it right with the boy, 
give him a bill, I mean." 

But Giovanni had at last found his voice; unluckily 
his English was very inadequate. 

"It ees Tony," he thrilled brokenly, "it ees my 
puppee! He ees dead!" 

But the lady's voice, beautifully modulated as ever, 
broke in: 

"Here is five dollars for you, little boy," she said to 
the pale-faced, trembhng child; "and I'm sorry about 
the dog! But still it was a very ordinary little puppy, 
and there are many more in the city just like it." 
Then with a carefully studied smile to the interested 
audience (she had rather enjoyed her part in the little 
drama), she turned to the grim and frowning chauffeur. 



ONLY A DOG 107 

"Home, Thompson!" she ordered happily. 

The policeman touched his hat feelingly as his eyes 
followed the retreating car. 

"Gee, but she's a thorough-bred," he informed the 
world at large, "givin' five bones to a little dago kid 
for a mut of a dog like that! Here, boy — " not un- 
kindly, "move on, now. You're blocking the traffic." 

But the child had straightened up, there in the 
street, with the dead dog held to his throbbing heart, 
a passion of hate gleaming from his huge eyes; the 
money that he had taken, the blood money that was 
to buy him food, that he might live, clasped in his hand. 

"Ah! the ladee," he screamed shrilly. "Her! I 
would keel her — her an' her smile. I hat' her; her 
an' her money. For she have keel my dog!" 

But the policeman prodded him with a stick. 

"Shut up!" he admonished fiercely. "Ain't you got 
no manners? Take your dog an' beat it!" And to the 
listeners he added: 

"Ain't it fierce, a wop kid like him, puttin' on airs. 
Him is the kind what throws bombs!" 

But the little boy, head bowed over the dead dog, 
was pushing his way through the cold, unsympathetic 
crowd; while his hot tears fell on the spotted white fur. 
And in his breaking little heart he wondered. 



THE UNRETURNING 

Gloomy the sky, all the shadows are drifting 

Earthward; like tears that are falling in vain, 
Softly the call of the nighl-bird is sounding 

Fraught with a message of sorrow and pain. 
Languid I rest on my couch, and my heart-throbs 

Echo the moan of the wind on the sea, 
Light of my love — have you gone — unreturning 

Never to come back again, dear, to me? 

Cold is the world as a tomb and the darkness 

Fills all my soul — while my heart is like lead. 
Tears that I shed not are burning my eyelids. 

Burning like needles of steel in my head! 
Oh! that the mountains might reach up to Heaven, 

Out of the waves of the murmuring sea, 
Then, though my feet were uncovered and bleeding, 

I would climb, Light of my Love, up to thee! 



THE KIDDIE'S HEAVEN 

Far, far away is the land of the morning. 

Bright gleams the sun there, and sweet are the 
flowers; 
Rivers are teeming with fishes that sparkle, 

Song-birds are darting in cozy green bowers. 
Butterflies tinted in thousands of colors, 

Float through the air as the hours are sped; 
And in this heaven of peace there are child-souls, 

Souls of the children of earth, who are dead. 

Teddy-bears seated in funny stiff poses. 

Dollies that smile through the bright summer days, 
Swings that are swift as the swallow, that flying 

Loses itself in the sun's warmest rays. 
Indian suits with their beading and feathers, 

Little canoes that are slender and light; 
Fireflies huge as balloons for the catching. 

Bright in the gloom of the cool summer night. 

Soft-nosed small ponies that wait to be ridden. 

Calves that are clumsy and tall in their youth; 
Rabbits all furry, and squirrels that are loving, 

Parrots that tell not a word but the truth. 
Great, friendly lions, and snakes that are gentle. 

Crawling away through the leaves and the grass; 
Monkeys that swing from the tree-top to tree-top, 

Chattering greetings to each as they pass. 

Soft hands there are in this heaven of children, 
Sweet lips that smile and kiss bruises all well, 



110 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

Ears that are ready and waiting to hear them, 
When there are stories the conscience must tell. 

Bread, jam, and cookies in piles never ending 
Stand for small fingers to carry away; 

And a Great Presence is near, ever smiling. 
Watching the child-souls of earth at their play. 

Once, long ago, I had thoughts of a heaven, 

Stiff with the stiffness of pews made with stone 
Where babies sat, and where sermons unending 

Came to their ears with an endless low drone. 
But as I dreamed in the night came this vision. 

Sweet with the light of the sun's mellow glow — 
Heaven of puppies, and kittens and flowers! 

This is the heaven of children I know. 



COMMENCEMENT DAYS 

The sky is blue overhead and the trees are a tender 
green; birds sing in hushed, thrilling notes and tiny 
breezes murmur love words to the flowers. For it is 
June; June, the month of roses, and love, and happiness. 

The little red schoolhouse by the road is silent now, 
and in the big stone city institutes, and in the colleges, 
the books have been laid away, and the ever humming 
voices are still. White-robed girls and men in dress 
suits stand, self-conscious but proud, waiting for the 
diplomas, or wander together, perhaps for the last time, 
over the well-loved campus. For the graduation means 
parting as well as commencement for the girls. 

When a girl graduates it is the opening of a new life 
to her. Her hopes are high and her ambitions are made 
of the stuff o' dreams. The future is a rose-hued some- 
thing covered with a veil of illusions through which the 
"shadows of the world appear." 

Commencement day stands for a great deal to the 
graduate. It means the victory in a battle with the 
forces of science and mathem.atics and Latin, and the 
languages, and English; it means the realization of a 
very real dream that has taken years to materialize; 
it is the gate to a broader and better country. It means 
all of this and, ohl so infinitely much more, for each 
graduate carries a heart too full for mere words, a heart 
in which the longings of childhood are as one with the 
hopes of grown-up-land. 

I have attended commencements at colleges that 
were really pathetic. Room-mates have clasped hands 
silently, with dim eyes, as they sang " Auld Lang Syne," 
and one has felt that they are mentally saying good-by. 



112 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

a farewell too deep to put into mere words. For college 
and school bring many people together that "come 
from the ends of the earth." 

The ones who take the most pure, unalloyed joy in 
commencements are the mothers, for they see a glimpse 
of their own girlish souls shining out of the eyes of their 
daughters, and they feel more of love and pride in the 
conventional speech based on "What is so rare as a 
day in June?" than an obscure artist feels in his first 
recognized work. 

Sweet girl graduates have made addresses ever since 
school days have begun — and finished. They have 
talked to their classmates of many things in which the 
trite phrases often occur that mean so much to the 
young hearts. It may sound forced to the blase, in- 
different commencement-goer, but to one who loves the 
speaker a stirring sentence such as: 

"Beyond the Alps lies Italy!" "We have crossed 
the Rubicon of our lives," or even, "We are standing 
where the brook and the river meet," sounds very real 
indeed. 

I once heard some girls talking about their approach- 
ing graduation. One girl was going to Paris to study 
art. Her slender brown fingers moved nervously 
while she talked, as if she wished already that she was 
at her canvas with a box of colors and a long chubby 
brush. Another girl was going in for suffrage with all 
of the power and influence that money and an old 
family name could buy. Yet another spoke of fame 
gained through a beloved old violin that could sob in 
heart-breaking cadence or sing light-heartedly for its 
mistress. Only one girl was silent about her secret 
longings. 

"Now, Mary," said the first girl to her, half re- 
proachfully, "why so silent? What are you going to 
do?" 

"Well," said the girl slowly, "I was going to go to 



COMMENCEMENT DAYS 113 

school and learn to model figures in clay — and plas- 
ter — and marble. I thought at one time that people 
might hear of me. But mother has broken down and 
there are the four children that have to be taken care 
of, and educated, and loved. I guess, girls, that I shall 
just stay at home." 

Perhaps that graduating class will be famous in time. 
Perhaps the violin will sing to great, silent, wondering 
audiences, and perhaps the paintings will go down as a 
heritage of wonder through the ages. Perhaps the 
name of a girl will be powerful in poUtics and reforms; 
but oh! of this I am sure: God will write one name in 
his heavenly book of deeds. 

Girls, I am going to pretend that I am a fortune- 
teller. I am going to sit in a dark corner with a bright 
scarlet shawl thrown over my face, and my head on 
my hands. I shall have a large sleepy-looking owl on 
my right hand, and a small wide-awake black kitten on 
my left. Then I shall take a clear crystal ball and 
read in it the fortunes of the girls who are graduated. 
This is what my make-believe crystal tells me: 

All of my graduating girls are going to leave school 
and go into whatever work is ready for them, be it at 
home or abroad, with happy hearts and brave spirits, 
for they are going to make a glad game out of their 
lives. And above all, my girls are going to remember 
that, as the wives and mothers of a new generation, 
the fate of our country lies in their hands. 

Before the knights of the round table were deemed 
worthy of a title they were made to live up to this 
motto. It is a wonderful motto, and I wish that my 
girls would remember it, and love it even as though 
they were armor-clad men who made the days of chiv- 
alry a theme for poem and ballad. 

Live pure, right wrong, follow the king; 
Else wherefore born? 



114 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

With that motto blazoned in one's heart, the world 
seems to be a better place. 

The little Roman boys who went to school in the 
days before Nero and his successors sent the city to its 
ruin, did not use the pencil and paper that we know. 
Instead they wrote on little wax tablets with a shar- 
pened stick, and when the lesson was finished they 
smoothed the wax down and began anew on the flat 
clean surface. Girls, life is one long series of lessons, 
some charming, easy ones; others as hard as granite, 
and as heartbreaking as despair. But if you keep the 
tablet of your mind clean and spotless it is always very 
easy to begin again. 

And as you receive the diploma that means the 
finishing of one lesson in the school of experience, re- 
member that life is at the commencement and that 
there is plenty of time for you to follow the king. 

When the end of your lesson has come, dear, 

And the school books are laid on the shelf. 
And the playtime and worktime is finished. 

And your heart is in tune with itself. 
Then, dear, take a grip on your life-line. 

And conquer each task worth your while. 
So that when the last lesson is done, dear. 

You may go to your God with a smile. 



VALEDICTORY 

You stand on the threshold, schoolmates, 

Of a life that is strange and new. 
And the four long years of your journey, 

Are buried in dust — and through. 
And the books that you hated, schoolmates, 

Are laid on the shelf away; 
And with beating heart, for you hate to part. 

You are facing Commencement Day. 

When you were but freshmen, schoolmates, 

You quarreled to have your way; 
But you realize now at the parting 

That the anger was all in play. 
And you feel that the kind words, schoolmates, 

That came when the day was past. 
Are the only things that a memory brings, 

To the book of the thoughts that last. 

You say good-bye to each other. 

With smiles that are almost tears; 
And you turn from the old scene, schoolmates, 

With a mixture of hopes and fears. 
God grant in the years before you, 

That the tasks be o'erthrown and won. 
And that heads may raise to a world-wide praise, 

In the glow of the dying sun. 



MOTHER'S DAY 

A LITTLE white flower with petals so dainty, 

A Httle white flower so fragrant and sweet; 
A perfume that rises to Heaven above us, 

And rests on the throne at the dear Master's feet. 
A httle white flower — 'tis small to remember, 

And yet as you go to your work or your play, 
Take heed to the message of love that it brings you, 

Oh! wear a white flower for mother today. 

For bright as the sunbeams that smile on the flowers. 
And kind as the raindrops that fall from above. 

And tenderly clinging as vines in the bowers, 
There's nothing so sweet as a dear mother's love. 

A Httle white flower with petals as slender 

And soft as the hands that are pressed on your brow, 
A perfume as sweet as the eyes that are smiling. 

As sweet as the lips that are kissing you now. 
A voice that is low as the breeze of the twilight. 

That murmurs, and croons, and seems almost to pray; 
A heart that is loving you now and forever. 

Oh ! wear a white flower for mother today. 

Don't glance around coldly, the moments are flying, 
Don't wait till her soul is in Heaven above; 

Pass over the years with their laughter and crying. 
And wear a white flower to show her your love. 



IN DEFENSE OF THE MODERN GIRL 

The short-sighted bachelor-man was speaking to a 
room full of girls, speaking with that nervous, sharp 
voice that fitted him so well. His spectacles, sitting 
uncomfortably on his flat, shiny nose, gleamed through 
the gathering dusk and his hand toyed with a glass on 
the table. 

"I have just one more thing to tell you," he was 
saying. "Just one more thing! Remember the girls 
of a hundred years ago and think of yourselves. Read 
the books that they read and glance into your own 
library. Think of how they went to church and how 
they worked and prayed for others. Truly the Mod- 
ern Girl is different, far different. And do you know" 
— he leaned forward in his chair, "do you know that 
the difference goes to my very heart— and hurts?" 

The girls filed out, more bewildered than impressed. 

"He's silly," I heard one of them say crossly. "He 
doesn't know what he's talking about." 

"We're not so bad," another girl took it up. "What 
if we don't wear the hoop-skirt, and bonnets, and 
shawls that grandmother did? We don't wear horrid 
clothes, or green wigs, or diamond studded shoes either. 
The Modern Girl doesn't do such silly things. Only 
freaks do them. I wonder why he said that we were 
so different — that we hurt him?" 

The quiet girl who had been walking in front, think- 
ing, turned as if in answer to the question. Her mild 
blue eyes showed an unexpected flash of humor: 

"Don't talk about him," she said, and a happy little 
laugh rippled through her words. "He doesn't know 
any better. He reads the papers and eats the editor- 
ials alive — and he never married. He hasn't any 
girls of his own." 



118 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

It was the keynote to the mystery of the bachelor- 
man! 

So many people do not understand the Modern Girl. 
Bachelor-men and others who do not have the bachelor- 
man's good excuse. So many people do not try to un- 
derstand the Modern Girl. And the hurt of it is that 
she is just as sweet, and just as lovable, and just as 
easy to understand as her mother was, and her grand- 
mother. What if the papers talk about The Dan- 
sants, and wild dresses, and print morbid poems about 
"Where is the girl of sixteen?" Almost any night you 
can drop into any modest little home and see the 
daughter of the house washing dishes, or darning 
stockings, or studying her Caesar just as she did a 
decade ago. 

I went to a luncheon last week in a very fashionable 
part of our city. My hostess was rich, and as I was 
swept uptown in her beautiful car I wondered about 
the girls that I was going to meet. 

"They will probably be conceited and over-dressed," I 
thought, "and they will probably be very much out in 
society. They will tell about the receptions, and dinners 
that they go to, until I am tongue-tied and bored!" 

Just then I reached my destination and in the flutter 
of introductions I forgot my thoughts about them. 
For though well dressed, their suits were simple looking; 
and their manners, though cordial and polished, were 
not the manners of grown-up society queens. 

The luncheon was full of surprises. The talk ran to 
school chums, and Nellie's engagement, and college 
football. When someone spoke about lunching with 
"one of the boys" a little thrill of excitement ran around 
the table. "My mother," the Httle girl next to me 
confided, "doesn't allow me to lunch alone with a man. 
She doesn't think that it is wise — she says." 

"But," the words were out before I stopped to think, 
"but I read so much in the papers about the girls of 



IN DEFENSE OF THE MODERN GIRL 119 

your set. I have often thought of the gay times that 
you have with your dancing, and clothes, and French 
lessons, and everything. Don't you do any of the 
things that they tell about?" 

"Of course we do a few of them," said the girl, "but 
then we aren't nearly as gay as we are supposed to be. 
I am chaperoned and taken care of just as carefully as 
mother was — why, some of the scrapes that she got 
into when she was young make my wildest adventures 
seem very tame!" 

One afternoon as I left my office I saw a girl standing 
on the corner waiting for a car. Her hair was arranged 
in the latest way and her suit and hat were models of 
neatness and style. "She must be quite rich," I 
thought. 

The next day I came out at the same time, but I 
was not alone. A little stenographer friend was with 
me and as we came to the corner she bowed to the girl 
— my girl of the day before — who was waiting for her 
car. 

"Who is she," I asked, when we were out of hearing. 
"She's so pretty, and fashionable, and sweet. She 
looks every inch the aristocrat." 

"That girl?" the little stenographer shook her head 
vehemently. "She makes fifteen dollars a week and 
hasn't another cent. She supports her mother on it, 
and her mother dresses mighty well too. She is twenty 
now and just ten years ago she and this same mother 
were at Ellis Island with a great fear in their hearts and 
not a word of Enghsh to speak. She says that she's 
an American, and I'm proud of her — our country's 
proud of her. She's an example of the Modern Girl." 

The Modern Girl! Fearless, proud, brave in the 
face of difficulties. She smashes tradition, and she 
throws away ancient custom, but the heart of her is 
just as true as the heart of the girl who wore bonnets 
and crinolines a generation ago. 



r 



THE FAIRY DOCTOR 

Once upon a time (so must all good stories go), 

There was a little girl named Claribel, 
She was very, very pretty, and in fact she was quite 
witty, 

But the naughty elves had laid on her a spell. 

When the sun was shining brightly, and the earth was 
sweet and gay, 
Little Claribel would pout, and whine, and fret; 
And her mother dear would sigh, and would almost 
always cry, 
While she wondered what could ail her darling pet. 

They had doctors wise and learned, from all countries 

far and near. 

But they wagged their heads in wonder and surprise. 

For Claribel was healthy, and in beauty she was 

wealthy, 

(Till she wrinkled up her mouth and nose and eyes). 

But one day her mother left her, and young Claribel 
went out, 

To take a walk in forests dark and gray; 
When suddenly she saw, seated by an oak tree hoar, 

A little man who seemed to be a fay. 

He looked at Claribel (she was scowling very hard) 
And he laughed till he could hardly hold his sides; 

Then he said to her; "My dear, I will charm away 
your tear. 
And will bring your dimple back from where it hides." 



THE FAIRY DOCTOR 121 

Then the fairy went to work, with his tools so bright 
and new, 
Punched and pounded till the frown became a 
smile; 
Dried the tears that on her face, had been wont to take 
their place, 
Kissed her cheek, and vanished into space the while. 

Claribel went home again; sweet and charming, bright 
and fair; 
To her mirror quick she sped and took a peep. 
On her pretty face she saw, smiles where frowns had 
been before, 
And the fairy's kiss had made a dimple deep. 



THE HOMECOMING 

The first men killed in the Mexican War — 1914 

A STREAM of sun from a heavy sky, 

On the dust of the city way, 
And the far off beat of a thousand feet. 

As they march in the road today, 
A blare of trumpets, the muffled sound 

Of drums, in a sullen roar; 
The creak of wheels on an earth that feels 

The weight of a nation's war. 
A crowd of people that strain their eyes, 

For, far o'er the restless foam. 
Our soldiers died for a country's pride; 

And now they are coming home. 

Their hearts were eager, their eyes were bright, 

Their pulses quick, and their breath, 
When they sailed away in the dawn of day, 

With hardly a thought of death. 
They smiled at the joy of youthful things, 

And they joked — who would joke no more; 
And they died like men, for they found them when 

The smoke of the guns blew o'er. 
Seventeen coffins — draped with flags — 

Ah, never again to roam; 
And the people cheer at a death they fear. 

For our heroes are safe — at Home ! 



A MESSAGE OF FAITH 

When the sky is dull with the gloom of dusk, 
And the night wind howls on its way; 

And the birds are still, and the evening chill 
Is making the bushes sway; 

When the shadows creep on the hillside steep, 
Like ghosts that have strayed afar; 

And the teardrops start from a saddened heart 
Where nothing but troubles are; 

When the world is dark as the world can be — 

Far up in the heavens grim, 
The faint stars gleam and the distant beam. 

Is a message of faith from Him. 



THE MOVING FINGER 

Years ago, an old Persian sat in a rose-garden, 
sweet-scented with blossoms, and bright with the sun 
of the Orient. As he sat there, he talked philosophy 
and taught young scholars who spoke of him rever- 
ently as "master," and wrote poetry to delight the ear 
and the mind and the soul. 

The old Persian died not far from his rose-garden 
and asked with his last quavering breath to be buried 
where the south wind would blow petals over his rest- 
ing-place. But he was not forgotten — he had left the 
work of his pen and of his heart behind him. 

Years after his death another poet, Edward Fitz- 
gerald, found his work and translated it. Of the many 
beautiful stanzas I am going to quote this one: 

The moving finger writes — and having writ. 
Moves on; nor all your piety and wit 

Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, 
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it. 

Girls dear, we are going to use this little verse for 
our text this morning. 

It's May-time now — the beautiful time of year. 
The flowers and birds and skies are fragrant, singing, 
radiant. The little brooks run laughingly over the 
stones, and the forest creatures scamper happily through 
green thickets. If the world is ever going to be good, 
if people are ever going to be good, it seems to me that 
they should be good in May. Perhaps in this summery 
time of the year, the moving finger will be able to write 
things about us that we will be proud of. 

The moving finger writes — and having writ. 
Moves on — 
Whose finger? The finger of fate, perhaps, or of 
time — or the finger of God. For whatever we do, it 



THE MOVING FINGER 125 

is sure to be written down somewhere — the most 
harmless-seeming white He alongside of the greatest 
good that is in our power to do. 

When I was a little child in the primary department 
of Sunday school, I saw a picture — the picture of a 
small girl serenely crossing a deep ravine on a tiny 
inch-wide plank. Deep below her lay rocks and tree 
stumps and the dark water, but beside her, floating 
softly along with dim, shadowy form, an angel kept 
guard. Andinmychildishheart I thought: "How very 
nice it must be to have such a kind angel helping you!" 

When we have done something to be proud of, we 
are glad to know that the eye of God is on us — that 
the moving fmger is writing our story. But when the 
way has been stormy and hard to follow, when things 
have gone wrong, it is a most uncomfortable thing to 
know that the eye is still following, that the moving 
fmger is writing on just as steadily as it has ever written. 

The next part of the theme is a sad part — a hard 
part to remember. It warns: 

Nor all your piety and wit 

Shall lure it back to cancel half a line. 

Some of us may be clever — very clever. Some of 
us think we are clever. Some may be clever, though 
we do not realize it; but none of us are clever enough 
to send back that moving fmger — to erase one single 
bit of the vivid writing. And perhaps it is fortunate 
that we cannot. 

There are people who seem to do wrong wonderfully 
well, and are never found out. They walk abroad in a 
world of men with heads held high and, perhaps, with 
never a twinge of conscience — respected, honored, even 
loved. They go to church and give money to God's 
poor in all piety, and yet — the moving fmger has writ- 
ten the story of their sin in indelible letters. Though 
the world looks up to them, the letters will never fade. 

Last of all, girls, is the tragic, pathetic part of the 



126 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

poem. The hopeless, the dreary part. For the poet 
sings sobbingly: 

Nor all your tears wash out a word of it. 

Once, when I was small and very awkward, I knocked 
over a beautiful cut glass vase and smashed it to pieces. 
Drowning with tears, I went to my mother and told all 
about it; how I had not meant to do it; how sorry I 
was. 

Of course, I was forgiven, and kissed back into happi- 
ness. But when I went down to the parlor, I saw the 
crystal fragments still lying on the floor. I had been 
forgiven; I was happy again — but the vase was still 
broken. 

It is easy to do wrong — very easy. And somehow, 
in the order of things, it seems just as easy to repent. 
It is very wicked to do something mean, to repeat 
something disagreeable about a dear friend; but it 
gladdens us to know that the same friend will forgive 
when we explain all about it. But the old Persian's 
point is this: You may do anything — you may weep 
tears of bitterness, and you may be forgiven; but no 
matter how bitter the tears, how sweet the forgiveness, 
the record of your misdeed will remain. A whole 
oceanful of tears will not obliterate a single word — 
not a solitary pen-stroke. 

You must be careful, very careful, what the moving 
finger writes about you. You may be amazingly good 
for a lifetime — and yet have a little black mark loom 
up huge at the end. The boy who is kind and helpful 
to his family for twenty years and then runs away is 
known the day after — not as "the man who was 
good," but as "the boy who broke his mother's heart." 

Friends of mine, read the little verse, and remember 
this: Through dark days and bright ones an eye is 
watching everything you do; every word you say is 
being recorded by a finger that moves slowly, deliber- 
ately — unreturningly. 



DECORATION DAY 

The call of bugles sounding a retreat, 

A blood-stained, smoking field of battle red; 

An ambulance with groaning victims filled, 

Ahead. 

A line of gasping, swiftly running men, 

And horses foaming white, with bated breath; 

The scream of beasts, and souls that murmur when 

They meet with death. 

An officer with hanging scarlet sleeve 

And battered knee that limply turns and swings. 

His face is pale, and yet his voice is strong 

And cheerful with the message that it brings, 

A trampled dirty rag with stars and stripes, 

It flutters in the gentle winds that blow, 

A sob, a curse, a prayer; ah, God but that 

Was years ago. 

The steady sound of drums, 

A flash of blue and then a dot of gray. 

And flowers, heavy laden, drooping down, 

Today. 

A line, so thin and feeble, marching slow, 

And children dressed in white, with silken flags, 

A blaze of sun streams on them as they go. 

The same that touched their smoke-dimmed battle rags. 

A man with whitened hair and wistful eyes, 

Who knows that he will never walk again, 

An empty sleeve, a twisted broken leg, 

That tells a tale of suffering and pain. 

A bright blue ground with eight and forty stars, 

A nation whole in strife, and work, and play; 

And hands clasp hands, the victors and the foes — 

Today. 



THINK OF THESE 

In the city there are children, 

Gasping for the want of air, 
Dying for the food we owe them, 

Asking for our help and care. 
Shall we listen to their pleading 

Coming to us soft and low? 
Yes. Remember that the Saviour 

Blessed the children long ago. 

In the city there are children 

Weak and wan and deathly pale, 
No one cares how much they suffer, 

No one listens to their wail. 
Shall we help them, friendly people? 

Yes. The Saviour meek and mild. 
Who has died to save us sorrow, 

Was Himself a little child. 



THE LADY IN THE VEIL 

Robert Vane boarded the car in the worst of spirits; 
for he was tired, and morose, and withal, very blase. 
But he got off the car with a smile in his eyes, and a 
little imp of happiness pulling at his heart strings. 
And it was all just because She had been on the car too. 

He had never seen Her before, but when he entered 
the crowded aisle she had stood out from the rest of 
the mixed, tawdry throng, just as a ray of pure sun- 
shine can dim the wonder of the lime light. And the 
whole world seemed to be better for her presence! She 
was little, and slender, and straight, and she was dressed 
very simply in a dark blue, severely tailored suit, that 
seemed to have been designed expressly for her. Her 
hat was small and blue too, but when she turned her 
head to look at him he was conscious of a distinct 
shock, for only a pair of vital, shining eyes showed 
through the meshes of a thick blue veil. And Robert 
wondered idly why she wore one on such a hot day. 
And then she got off the car, and again he wondered 
what she was going to do in that bitterly poor part of 
town. 

It was a week later that he saw Her again. Still 
dressed in blue, still heavily veiled. A dog had been 
run over by an automobile, and she was holding the 
poor dying head in her arms, while the glazing eyes 
looked up at her with the perfect trust that sometimes 
an animal will show. And when the dog had died she 
got up swiftly and walked away through the thickening 
crowd. And Robert was sure that the wonderful eyes 
had looked misty through the veil. 



130 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

He stepped up to a policeman who was carrying the 
dog away, and thrust a bill into his hand: 

"Can you tell me," he asked, "who she is? The 
little lady in blue, I mean." 

A smile broke over the broad, Irish face of the 
officer, 

"Why, sorr — " he said, and his eyes softened as he 
spoke — "I don't know her name. We calls her the 
'Veiled Lady,' and some there are as calls her the 
'Veiled Angel'; but none, sorr, know who she is. But, 
God bless her, sorr, we love her." And touching his 
helmet the man strode on with his burden. 

And so Robert Vane, the rich man, the uninterested, 
the blase, went for advice to his old friend and former 
schoolmate, the newspaper man, the man who knew 
everybody. And he found the newspaper man seated 
in his office, feet on desk, musing. 

"Hello, Johnnie," he said. 

"'Lo, Bob," responded his friend without rising, 
"what d'you want now?" 

"Come on out to lunch," invited Robert, smiling 
faintly, "and I'll tell you." 

"You're on!" replied his friend with more speed than 
politeness. And the subject was dropped, until, when 
comfortably seated at a table shining with glass and 
silver, Robert brought it up again. 

"Well, Johnnie," he remarked, trying hard to be 
nonchalant, "I've met Her!" 

"Lord, man, have you really?" ejaculated his friend, 
dropping a fat stuffed olive in his surprise — "Met 
Her! The Her you used to talk about when we were 
kids in school? The all-powerful Her, the Her that it 
has taken you thirty-five years to meet? You're crazy, 
Bob, crazy. I knew that you'd marry sometime but 
I never thought that you'd marry Her ! " And he began 
to laugh. 

"It's no laughing matter," said Vane sulkily, "shut 



THE LADY IN THE VEIL 131 

up, you hyena, or you'll have me — you'll have me 
crazy!" 

"That's so," answered his friend reflectively, "and 
you're paying for the dinners. I'll be good. Who is 
she. Bob, my son, and where does she live? How did 
you meet her, and — Why, oh! why does a blush 
suffuse yon lily cheek?" 

"Be serious," pleaded the red-faced and suffering 
man, and his friend wondered if this could, in truth, be 
Robert Vane. "The Lord knows I am serious! I can't 
tell you her name, and I haven't the faintest idea where 
she lives. In fact, I have never even met her. But 
she is little, and she dresses in blue, and she wears a 
blue net over her face. And everyone seems to love her 
though nobody knows her; for on the East Side they 
call her the Veiled Lady, and the Veiled Angel. Do 
you know who she is?" 

The newspaper man stared now, in real surprise. 

"The Veiled Lady," he repeated, "the Veiled Angel 
you say? Haven't you heard of her? Man, where 
have you been! She does a great good on the East 
Side, but nobody knows where she lives or who she is in 
private life. She is nearly always dressed in blue, and 
she is always veiled. Newspaper men have written 
stories about her, but they always tear them up, be- 
cause she asks them to, and folk always do what she 
asks. As you say, the whole East Side adores her; but 
no one has ever fallen in love with her; no one has ever 
known her well enough. Heavens, man, why didn't 
you fall in love with the moon?" 

"It might have been more reasonable," agreed Vane, 
"and yet — she might like me if she knew me — I'm 
pretty young, and I — well I've a good name, and I'm 
not bald yet, and I have money (though that wouldn't 
matter to her!) and — say, John, for Heaven's sake, if 
you must laugh and giggle like an imbecile baby, go out- 
side. I feel nervous, and I can't see that you are mak- 



132 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

ing me feel any better. I know that it sounds conceited 
— but I must meet her. How can I? Please be 
serious John, that's the boy!" 

"Well, since you ask for my honored opinion," an- 
swered his friend, "I think, Bob, that you had better 
take up settlement work. Go around to the places 
that she goes to, take bacon and eggs to starving men, 
and maul dirty, squaUing babies. And maybe the 
Veiled Lady will notice you — maybe; and then pretty 
soon she will take you around with her; and then some 
day you can rip up the veil and kiss her — maybe, 
and," 

But with an angry exclamation Vane started up, and 
hurried for the door. And as he walked out his frown 
grew in volume. But the newspaper man sat and 
laughed. 

"Lord, he's peevish," he soliloquized, "but then he's 
in love — with a shadow. Poor chap, he'll be back in 
a day or two for more advice. And in the meantime 
I'm glad that he didn't forget to pay for my dinner!" 
So he lighted another cigar and went back to his mus- 
ings. 

But Robert Vane did not go back to the newspaper 
man for advice; he went to the East Side for inspira- 
tion. 



A girl dressed in a blue suit bent over the bed, and a 
wide eyed child played with some violets pinned to the 
blue coat, and with bright, feverish eyes tried to pierce 
the disguise of the veil. And as the girl told fairy tales, 
and legends, and funny incidents, the child's smile grew, 
and the child's hand clasped tighter. 

"And so they were married. Marietta, and lived 
happily ever after," finished the Veiled Lady in her 
sweet voice. 

"Ah!" sighed the little girl, "but they do not that — 



THE LADY IN THE VEIL 133 

in real life. They marries, and they drinks, and they 
loses their jobs, and then — they dies, so, like my papa, 
and—" 

"But little girls should not say such things," ad- 
monished the lady seriously. "When the real prince 
comes they do marry, and live happily ever after." 

"An' my lady's real prince has not come?" asked the 
big eyed child curiously, "Never? But no, for I have 
seen him, I; he is like to a Grand Duke, an' his eyes 
smile at one; so! An' he speaks, lady, of you, an' 
when he speaks his lips smile also, with his eyes. An' 
he says 'Veiled Lady' as I say 'Mother Mary' and 'The 
King.' For he is the prince — your prince!" 

The Veiled Lady started, and under the veil, a flush 
crept over her face. 

"And who is this prince, my little girl?" she inquired, 
seemingly innocent, "What is his name?" 

"He is the Signor Robert Vane," responded the httle 
one, proudly. "He gave to me my dolly, and the 
brace for my back. An' he too tells to me stories about 
beautiful ladies and princes." 

"And does he come often?" asked the lady, as she 
tightened her veil. 

"Ah! my lady, he comes now; for I hear on the 
floor his step," answered the little girl happily. "No, 
no, my lady, you mus' not go; you mus' stay, to meet 
your prince!" 

There was really no time to go, thought the lady, 
and as the door opened she straightened in her chair, 
and turned her head while the excited child greeted the 
tall, attractive man. 

"Ah! Signor Vane, you are come; an' behold — 
She also is here, my lady of whom I have speak with 
you. My lady, this is the prince, my Signor!" 

And the little veiled lady found her hand grasped 
and enfolded by large firm fingers that seemed almost 
to give a caress, while a large, happy voice exclaimed: 



134 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

"Glad to have met you at last Miss — " the voice 
paused. 

"Smith," she filled in the gap hurriedly, and the man 
smiled, it was so obviously unreal. 

"Smith," he repeated, and his eyes seemed almost 
to pierce the veil's disguise. "Miss Smith, I have 
wanted to know you for a long time, because, well, be- 
cause I have! And my little friend, here," with a 
swift smile to the listening child, "loves you so much 
that — well — I have wanted to meet you more than 
ever. For I love — to help. Can't we be friends?" 

And the Veiled Lady nodded her head. So when at 
last they left the little girl, tired and sleepy, but ra- 
diant, they went together. 

There were many places that those two people went 
to together after that day: the small veiled woman 
and the large, openly adoring man; and as the East Side 
saw it (for the East Side sees things quickly) folk smiled, 
and nodded, and in broken English showered blessings 
on their embarrassed heads. And sometimes when 
the little woman looked up, she smiled (though he 
could not see the smile), and when she saw his eyes she 
blushed. (But he could not see the blush!) But she 
never told him her name, and he never asked to see her 
face. And then at last one evening, as he was putting 
her into her carriage, he saw a certain sweetness in her 
eyes, and impulsively, thoughtlessly, he kissed the tiny 
hand that lay in his, while he murmured: 

"I love you!" 

But instead of answering him in the conventional 
way, the little lady snatched away her hand, and turned 
aside. And as the carriage door slammed Vane thought 
that he heard a sob. 

So he went home to his bachelor apartments, and 
scowled into the darkness as he viciously smoked his 
pipe. And he cursed the Love God, and Fate, and 
blue veils. 



THE LADY IN THE VEIL 135 

It was some hours later that the telephone bell rang 
sharply, and with an uncomplimentary adjective Vane 
hurried to its peremptory call. But as a well known 
voice sounded over the wire, he answered eagerly. The 
message was very brief. 

"Come to little Marietta's house at once. She is 
sinking fast and she is asking for you. Hurry!" 

And clanging the receiver into place, Vane struggled 
hastily into his coat, and rushed out of the door. 

The ride was not long, ordinarily, but it seemed hours, 
eternities, before the taxi drew up in front of the shabby 
tenement. And when he reached the room he saw a 
doctor, silent at the foot of the cot; and a sobbing 
mother, who called on the saints, and a little blue 
figure that knelt beside the cot. 

And swiftly, quietly, he crossed the room and fell on 
his knees by her side, while he laid his arm about her 
shaking shoulders. 

The eyes of the little girl on the bed brightened, and 
she tried to raise her head. 

"God bless — my Signor — for coming," she gasped, 
"and Heaven smile — on my beautiful lady!" 

Her eyes closed for a moment, and the doctor stepped 
quickly to her side. But the child opened her eyes 
again. 

"Ah! my lady," she almost whispered, "please, may 
I see your face?" 

And the little lady, after an almost imperceptible 
pause, raised her veil for the first time. And on the 
side toward the little girl it was indeed a wonderful 
face; long lashed dewy eyes, quivering hps, and all. 
On Vane's side a long white scar ran from temple to 
lip, but this side was turned away from the waiting 
child. And the little girl smiled sweetly, while all of her 
artistic soul, the soul of her race, shone out of her eyes. 

"Ah, my lady is indeed an angel," she murmured, 
and so she closed her eyes, and died. 



136 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

But the little lady turned toward Vane; pale, death- 
like, herself, save for her wonderful eyes. 

"You see," she sobbed, "you understand; now! I 
was burned when I was a tiny girl, and since then I 
have worn a veil. Ah! you do not understand — " 

For unconscious of the rest Vane had taken her in 
his arms. 

"But, my darling," he whispered brokenly, for the 
presence of death was with him, "As if that could 
matter — I love you ! No, dearest, don't put it on. 
Don't you know that it's bad luck to kiss anyone you 
love through a veil?" 



THE BLIND CHIEF'S LAMENT 

Dark is the night and the stars are done shining, 

Cold is the wind that seems bitter and wild; 
Far o'er the mountain a wolf-cub is whining. 

Sad as the wail of a suffering child. 
Dark are my thoughts as the night, and the cryini 

Is but a note from my desolate heart; 
How can I laugh when my whole soul is dying? 

Crushed by the thought that I bear not a part? 

Far in the valley the war-cries are ringing. 

Bright blaze the lights o'er the dying and dead. 
Tomahawks circle and arrows are singing, 

Singing the song for which thousands have bled. 
Red, green and yellow the war-paint is glowing 

High on the faces made hard as a stone. 
Here in the darkness with squaws, all unknowing, 

I am left sightless — to quiver alone! 

Wonderful Master who helps and rewards us. 

Spirit who listens to red men that pray. 
Hunter of many, whose own hand accords us 

Blessings or curses from night until day. 
Listen I beg to a blind chieftain's sighing. 

Take from my eyelids the feeling of stone; 
Or from Thy bow send an arrow — that dying 

I may go with thee — not stay here alone! 



THE PEACE CONFERENCE— 1914 

We talk of war and we talk of peace, 

And a nation's pride at store; 
And we send our men to a council when 

The smoke of the fight blows o'er. 
We plead and argue and fret and fume, 

In the light of the sunny day; 
And we cry aloud to a noisy crowd 

For the weight of the words they say. 
And yet, in mills that are hot with death, 

And dark with the spectre's wing. 
The women moan and the children groan, 

At the message of peace we bring. 

We talk of war and we talk of peace, 

And we talk of a nation's pride; 
And we thank the ones who have carried guns. 

And pray for the ones who died. 
We tell our doubts, and we sing our songs. 

With an ear for the world's acclaim ; 
And we raise our eyes to the far off skies, 

And try to forget the blame. 
We shake our heads at our heavy thoughts, 

But out on the streets today, 
Full many roam that are far from home. 

And have strayed from the narrow way. 

L' Envoi 

When our earthly sins have been all absolved. 
And the toilers have found release; 

When the world is bright with love's golden light, 
Ah, then may we speak of peace. 



THE SPICE OF LIFE 

"Variety is the spice of life," quoted the girl as she 
coiled her hair in an extremely original way. "Now, 
I know that there won't be another girl at the party 
with a hair-fix like this — and I'm glad." 

"No," laughed the brunette, as she swung her feet 
idly from her seat on the bed, "there won't be another 
girl with a fix like that. I agree with you." 

"Don't be sarcastic, Betty," admonished the first 
speaker, as she surveyed herself leisurely in the glass. 
"I Hke being different. I like to wear odd clothes, and 
queer slippers and Oriental bits of jewelry. I like to 
fix my hair in ways so that people will look at me. It's 
simply great to be different. So many girls — aren't." 

(If I were a man I would write notes, furtively, on 
my cuffs. As I am not, I take them, without comment, 
and place them in a small corner of my mind, labeled 
"copy." Mentally I jotted down the conversation to 
use at a later day. This is the day.) 

The girls were talking about clothes and hairdressing 
and other unessential things. But they had a hard, 
clean-cut idea behind all the seeming foolishness. 

Did you ever live in a place with beautiful scenery — 
mountains and little streams and sunsets? And did 
you ever stand out in the evening time and watch the 
colors stain the blue gray of the sky into a thing of 
wonderful beauty? And did you love them? Be- 
cause, if you loved them, you perhaps noticed that no 
two of them were exactly alike. They were all sunsets; 
but some were crimson, some were purple, and some 
were gold. The cloud-shapes were different, and the 
light streaks were never the same shape. 

Here is another comparison. Did you ever see a 
block of houses built along in a row by the same un- 



140 FRIENDS O' MINE 

original architect — square, little, rather practical 
houses, with the same shaped roofs and the same sized 
porches and the same number of windows? Even, 
perhaps, painted the same color? And didn't you dis- 
like to see those houses? Didn't your eyes ache with 
looking at them? 

A few days ago I was visiting a manicure at a not 
very attractive little place. The manicure girls were 
over-dressed, a trifle loud in expression, extremely loud 
in voice. I was rather dismayed by them until the girl 
who was to wait on me came forward. She was a sweet- 
faced little thing with attractively arranged hair and a 
natural complexion. Her dress was a simple black and 
her shoes were nearly sensible; but her voice, when she 
spoke to me, was the greatest surprise of all. Softly, 
musically, without a trace of the New York accent, she 
asked my errand, and smiling graciously she led me to a 
table. 

"You are from the South or the West, aren't you?" 
I asked abruptly. She interested me, there among the 
others. But I was surprised by her answer to my 
question. 

"I have lived in New York all my life," she told me. 
"I was born and brought up here. I stay here all ex- 
cept one week in the summer time, when I have my 
vacation. But I guess I'm a little different. The girls 
in this place tease me about it. They say that nobody 
can hear what I say. They say: 'For goodness' sake, 
Mary, don't put on airs.' They think that I'm affected. 
I'm not." 

"Of course you're not," I agreed with her. "Don't 
let them bully you into a loud voice and a bold manner. 
It's charming to see you here." 

The final polish had been completed and I rose to go. 
The girl followed me to the door. "When you come 
again," she told me, with her sweet, out-of-place little 
smile, "ask for me — Miss Smith. I do hke to talk to 
you." 



THE SPICE OF LIFE 141 

"I certainly shall," I told her heartily. She was an 
interesting character, and I liked to talk to her. 

Did you ever think of the stories that come in daily 
to the newspaper and magazine and pubhshing offices? 
And did you ever think of the people whose business it 
is to read these same stories? People who see that a 
story is pubhshed or send it back? Do you know which 
stories they choose? Not the silly, commonplace, 
everyday httle stories that have been told thousands 
of times with different scenes and names and, perhaps, 
expressions of speech. No! They choose the stories 
that are clever and absorbing and original. In short, 
the stories that are different. 

Are you different? Because you owe it to yourself, 
and to everybody else, to be original in some way. 
Not in the tiny, trivial things, but in the things that 
count. Don't think that I want you to wear a black 
stocking on one foot and a white one on the other as 
you walk through the streets. That would attract at- 
tention, and it would certainly be different. Don't 
imagine I want you to develop a sarcastically original 
mode of speech that will make people squirm, even 
while they laugh. Don't think I want you to do wild, 
rash things — and boast of them, so that folk will talk 
of you and call you different. 

I do not want you to be like a row of frame houses, 
all painted ahke — that is all. I would hate to have 
you talk like Marian, and dress like her, and act hke 
her — just because she is your chum. Copy her good 
qualities if you like, but do not lose your own individu- 
ality, because then you will be only one of a soulless 
row of houses. 

But, friends of mine, I want each one of you to be 
like God's own sunsets. All of you be alike in this — 
that you show the brilliant colors of truth, and happi- 
ness, and love, and let your minds and your hearts 
shape themselves after your own hopes and wishes and 
desires. Be different — but be yourselves. 



AFTER THE STORM 

The earth may be dark and gloomy, 

And the clouds may hang bleak and gray; 
And the lightning may tear the sky apart 

While the storm gods have their day. 
And earth's creatures frightened, panting, 

Torn with their sorrow and pain, 
Forget that there is to-morrow — 

That the sun comes after the rain. 

The night may be black and heartless, 

And sorrow may be around; 
And the prayers may seem all unanswered, 

As we kneel on the friendless ground. 
And we sob and sigh in our anguish. 

For we fail to see the light; 
Ah! God, if we could remember. 

That the dawn comes after the night ! 



THE MIDDLE WEST 

The Flood in 1913 

Rain and storm, and wind, and fire, 

Clear the land of joy and light; 
While the shadow of Death's angel, 

Guards the path from morn till night. 
Fathers, mothers, husbands, lovers, 

Wait to hear a heartsome call; 
But the land is dying, silent — 

God alone is over all. 

Groans, and sobs, and prayers, and curses. 

From the stricken people start; 
Ah! the words can show but little 

Of the anguish of the heart. 
Can it be that God who hears them, 

Silently will stay above. 
While his children call him, trusting 

To his overwhelming love? 



JACK-0-LANTERN 

"Grinning mouth and eyes of red. 

Glowing in an awful head; 

Oh! I'm 'fraid to go to bed 

With you near. 

'Course I know you're not alive, 

(But you see I'm only five), 

And no matter how I strive 

With my fear; 

I can almost hear you say 

In a scary kind o' way 

'Little boy, you stop your play, 

Come right here!'" 

"If I came all knocky-kneed, 

Shakin' like a little weed. 

Just to satisfy your greed 

With my head. 

Would you hurt me, ogre-man? 

(Yes, of course I know you can. 

But it is a horrid plan.) . . . 

Mother said 

That you mustn't scare me so 

For I watched you grow and grow 

In the garden down below, 

In a bed!" 



LIFE'S SIGNBOARDS 

Coming out from the city on the fast trains I pass 
many familiar landmarks. First come the meadows 
(a dreary stretch of sun-burned marshland), then two 
bridges, and then a large, imposing station followed by 
smaller ones in rapid succession. If I am tired, I think 
as I pass each well-known place, "I am coming nearer 
home." But if I am happy and rested and open to 
interest, I feel glad to see each one of them. Life 
is not unlike that, for each stage of our journey is 
marked out by a sign to pass, or a bridge to cross, or 
maybe a station to stop at. 

Shakespeare divides a man's life into seven ages: 
the baby, schoolboy, lover, soldier, judge, old age, and 
second childhood. A man's life, however (and a wom- 
an's too), is divided by many more than seven. 

Just as there are different landmarks on every road, 
there are different turnings in the paths of life. Some 
people have thousands of "ages" and some have one 
or two — no more. 

I once knew a woman, a little, fluttery, doll-like 
woman, who had never seemed to outgrow her school- 
girl giggle and childish thoughts. She lived in a world 
made bright with many rainbows, and smiled as sorrow 
passed her by. The things that seemed very serious 
and important to us, she treated as a huge joke; and 
the things that brought very real tears to our eyes, did 
not ruffle her wonderful calm. 

One day the Sorrow that had always walked by on 
the other side of the street tapped at the little lady's 
door. It was a merry child with gray hair and dancing 
feet that tripped to meet him; but it was a broken, 



146 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

worn-out woman who crept away from the sight of his 
face. She had passed from the fairy-tale land of spring- 
time into the grim cold of mid-winter without having 
seen a single milepost on the way. 

The heart of a child is a thing to be kept always, I 
think, but folk sometimes go to extremes, and oh ! how 
much they miss! 

There are other people who meet old age at the very 
gateway, before he has decided to come in, and they, 
too, miss a great deal that is sweet and good and tender. 
I have seen college girls, and young business men, with 
lines about the eyes and mouths that have made their 
faces pitiful and middle-aged; I have seen women who 
have spoiled six of the seven ages that Shakespeare 
speaks of (and a hundred that he does not speak of) 
by the ceaseless grind and wear and tear of their troubled 
minds. I have looked around me at the gay places of 
the city and seen faces made blase and weary by too 
much of life's sweetness. 

I do not think there are two people in the country 
who have passed through the same stages in life in the 
same way. I know that I graduated from babyhood 
when I was led to church with my first wide hair rib- 
bon and a pocketful of round peppermint candies to 
keep me quiet. My first report card in school and my 
first promotion brought similar thrills, and I think I 
began to feel grown up when I wore my first shiny 
black silk stockings. Chemistry lessons brought an- 
other change, and so did leaving school, and my first 
pubhshed poem. And there were other things, too 
trifling, or too terribly important to talk about. 

My mother tells about her first dress with a pocket 
in it, and says that she will always remember the feel- 
ings she had when she wore it for the first time; and I 
have heard my father speak of the long trousers that 
made him grow up suddenly from a whistling, mis- 
chievous boy to a man of affairs. 



LIFE'S SIGNBOARDS 147 

On the road of life the signboards fly by with amaz- 
ing rapidity, marking off the stages of our long journey 
that seems at times only too short. There is a bridge, 
indicating some grave decision, to be crossed, and a 
dangerous trestle that must be passed over at the risk 
of happiness, or perhaps even life. There are stations 
that we pause at, to rest, or to stay for we know not 
how long, and there are weary waits that are tiresome 
and lonely. 

But if we are happy, if we are interested in the coun- 
try that we fly through, we smile as we pass the land- 
marks and say: "Now I am nearer home." 



PEACE 

What though the night be darkest, 

What though the storm be wild, 
When a man may sit by his table 

With his wife and his little child? 
What though the food be costly, 

And the money be scarce for more? 
A heart may thrill through the winter chill 

Though the wolf sits guard at the door. 

For within there is warmth and lightness, 

And over it all is love, 
As a radiant gleam of brightness 

Shines down from the God above. 

What though the wars are waging. 

And the fields are strewn with the dead? 
For the light of the lamp is glowing 

On a mother's golden head. 
What though the hosts are waihng, 

As they ask for the sun and moon. 
When a smile has place on the baby's face, 

As he toys with his little spoon? 

For the world at best is a sad old place, 
Outside of the home's bright sphere; 

Yet sorrow can have but little space, 
When the Spirit of God is near! 

Can it be that the seas are roaring 
And the lost souls wail to the sky? 

That the streets of the town are groaning 
While the people give up — and die? 



PEACE 149 

For the home is sweet with a blessing. 

In the shadow of angel's wings; 
Ah! what shall they fear? For peace is near, 

With the spirit of joy it brings. 

And sweet smile the lips that were weary, 

And light is the laughter gay; 
For how can the mind be dreary, 

When the eyes watch a baby play? 

Ah! what though the wind is howling 

Alone in its narrow way? 
In the evening time we must banish 

The cares of a weary day. 
And the sound of a baby's laughter 

And the lilt of a mother's song 
Take away the tears and the needless fears 

That have haunted us all day long. 

So we smile on the dear ones about us 

In the beautiful haven of love; 
And the storms may rage; can they rout us? 

While the Master smiles from above. 



BETTY'S BONNET 

Betty had a brand new bonnet, 
Flowers pink and bows were on it, 
Leaves of green and buds so tiny 
Lace, and streamers long and shiny. 
Oh! it was a pretty bonnet! 
Betty had. 

Betty had a brand new bonnet. 
She could almost write a sonnet. 
On its many charms endearing, 
On its colors gay and cheering, 
Oh! 'twas fashion's finest bonnet, 
Betty had. 

Betty wore her brand new bonnet, 

But to keep her gaze upon it. 

She grew cross-eyed (more's the pity!) 

For she had been very pretty, 

And she blamed it on the bonnet, 

Betty did! 



CALLING ETIQUETTE 

When you go out to make a call. 

Don't fuss about your hat; 
Don't let your thoughts dwell on your gloves, 

Or anything like that! 

But oh! be sure that in your soul 

Some kindness has its place; 
Let happiness be in your mind, 

A smile upon your face. 

For in this world much sorrow 

And trouble have their sway; 
See if you cannot banish them 

A little while to-day. 

Make other hearts in time with yours, 

Comfort the tears that fall; 
Oh, dear, remember just these things. 

When you go out to call! 



FLOWERS TO THE DEAD 

Decoration Day, day of flags, and flowers, and green, 
grass-covered graves. Decoration Day, the time of 
sobs and tears, of prayers, and memories, and smiles. 
Decoration Day! 

It comes only once a year, this brave hoHday, on the 
boundary line between May and June, spring and sum- 
mertime. Schools give a holiday and banks close. 
Business is shut up, and the tired workingman hangs a 
flag out over his porch, and rests. Old soldiers, totter- 
ing on canes, soldiers bent and white-headed, waiting 
for the last "taps" to be sounded, get out their suits of 
blue or gray, covered with tarnished gold lace and brass 
buttons, and hobble to the cemetery to lay a wreath on 
some comrade's last resting-place. 

It is a beautiful thing to think of a nation celebrating 
a day — setting it apart from all others — for the pur- 
pose of honoring the nation's heroes. 

I was sitting in a trolley car when a lady entered — 
a woman no longer very young, with a pale, sorrowful 
face. She wore expensive black, and her two carefully 
gloved hands held a huge dewy mass of roses. Like 
an oasis in a desert they filled the dusty city air with 
sweetness and color. In a little while a small newsboy 
dragged himself up the step and presented a grimy 
transfer to the conductor. 

"I found it," he confided loudly to a man seated 
near the door. Then he tramped down the aisle, and 
climbed up on the seat next to the lady. 

"Them flow'rs are swell," he told her in a soft, won- 
dering tone of voice. "I never saw any like 'em be- 



FLOWERS TO THE DEAD 153 

fore." Reverently he touched the nearest blossom 
with moist, grimy fingers. 

The lady moved down on the seat, putting several 
feet of space between herself and the small intruder. 

"Don't touch them!" she ordered crossly. 

Several blocks farther on she got out, her arms full of 
her fragrant burden. With halting footsteps and tear- 
filled eyes, she turned in at a great marble-columned 
cemetery gate. She was taking her roses to lay on the 
grave of some dead loved one. I was sorry for the wo- 
man; but I could not help thinking of the Httle news- 
boy. He was very much alive, and a single flower 
would have meant paradise to him. 

I know a girl who had a very dear friend — a friend 
who meant more to her than I could possibly put 
into words. One day, the friend died and left her 
plunged in grief. A year after, the dead girl's birthday 
came around, and the day before the anniversary I 
happened to meet my friend on the street. We went to 
tea together. I did not speak of the absent one, but 
suddenly, as we sat quietly gazing out of the window, 
the girl began to talk. 

"Margaret," she said, "something has been bother- 
ing me. I want to ask you if I'm doing right." 

"Perhaps I won't help any. I'm not so good at ad- 
vice," I answered, "but go on." 

"You see, it's this way," she told me. "To-morrow 
is Ahce's birthday — the first birthday when we haven't 
been together for ten years. I had earned five dollars 
— it seemed more personal that way — and I was go- 
ing to buy flowers for her grave. I was just on my 
way to the florist to order them when I met a woman I 
know — a woman who used to wash for us. Margaret, 
you should have seen her. Her eyes were large and 
black and her cheeks were perfectly hollow. I asked 
her what was the matter, and she said she was hungry. 
Hungry? She was starving! And so were the three 



154 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

children that belonged to her! Well, I told her that I 
would find some work for her to-day, and then I gave 
her all the money I had. It was only after she had 
left me that I remembered Alice's flowers — I can't 
get them now. Do you think that she'll mind — very 
much?" 

"Mind?" I groped blindly for words. "Mind? Of 
course not! She would be glad and thankful if she only 
knew." 

Do you think so too, friends of mine? 

One day this week I felt rather blue and unhappy. 
It was a dark, gloomy day, with a biting wind coming 
around the bleak corners and a heavy rain that fell 
drenchingly to the ground — a steady downpour of big 
splashing drops. Somehow the world inside my office 
seemed very lonely and gray. I had a headache, my 
work had been going badly and I was rather discour- 
aged. When the mail came in — a big package of let- 
ters to be opened — I was not much cheered. But my 
special guardian angel was on duty that day. When 
I cut the first envelope, I found a plain little letter, 
written in pencil on cheap paper, by an unknown lady, 
old enough to be my grandmother. But the words, 
lightly written in an old-fashioned hand, fell across my 
heart like a ray of golden sunshine, through the gray- 
ness of the rain. 

"Dear Friend," read the letter, "I have been seeing 
your pieces in The Christian Herald for some time, 
and I made up my mind to write to you. Some people 
believe in keeping their kind words and their flowers 
and their love until a person is dead. But I don't. I 
want you to know, right now, that you've cheered me 
up lots of times, and that I like your stories and that I 
like you." 

Now, I don't want you to think that I am disapprov- 
ing of Decoration Day. The world is stupid and mat- 
ter-of-fact enough to forget easily the heroes who lie in 



FLOWERS TO THE DEAD 155 

our cemeteries. But we should consider the living, too. 
Let us place roses over the little green mounds, but 
don't let us overlook the pleading child-hands that are 
stretched out for their sweetness. While we honor the 
memory of those beautiful spirits that have passed 
from us, let us not forget the living, breathing souls that 
need our help. 

It is not necessary to save all the flowers, the kind 
words and the kisses until lips and hearts and minds are 
cold and dead. 



A PRAYER 

God of the hosts that fight and die, 

'Mid smoke and din, and shot and shell, 
Through all the noises of a hell — 

The curse, the groan, the battle cry. 

Our prayers go toward the far blue sky; 
Oh! Lord, to ask that we may be 
From pain, and care, and sorrow free; 

Until at last we come to dwell 
Near Thee, on high. 

God of the multitudes that groan; 
And yet strive on where cannon rolls. 
Where death hews down its bloody tolls, 

Whose weary hearts begin to moan 

Amid the battle's sullen drone. 

Oh! Father, hear our humble prayer. 
Protect this country bright and fair! 

We lean our swords, our pens, our souls. 
On Thee alone. Amen. 



HER BLESSING 

The years may come, and the years may go, 

And the wind may be bitter cold. 
And the thoughts that start from the lonely heart 

May be tragic and sad and bold. 

And the eyes so bright may have lost their light, 
And the hair may be thin and gray; 

But never fear, when the end is near, 
There is still Thanksgiving Day. 

Ah! what though the hair is white with years, 
And what though the eyes are dim. 

When once a year we may banish fear, 
And lift up our thoughts to Him? 

She folds her hands in a gesture meek, 
And her heart is high with her Lord; 

And she bends her head o'er the table spread 
With the best of her tiny hoard. 

And her blessings rise to the boundless skies. 

And the angels can hear her say 
Her thanks to the Lord who filled her board 

On this glad Thanksgiving Day. 

Ah! the years may come and the years may go, 

And the wind may be bitter cold; 
But folks will pray on Thanksgiving Day, 

When the sun and the stars are cold. 



THE PUNISHMENT 

The Writer Girl crawled up the stairs in her worn- 
out, mousy-quiet little way. The day had been hard, 
and rainy, and cheerless. And to cap the climax a 
disappointment had been waiting for her at the end 
of it. The disappointment was a long, fat envelope, 
addressed in her own handwriting to "Miss Serena 
Perkins," and the long, fat envelope contained a story 
and a crisp little note signed by the curt editor of a big 
magazine. 

As a name, Serena Perkins did not fit the Writer 
Girl at all. She should have been a Peggy or an Emmy- 
Lou, or a Bess. For whereas a Serena should have 
owned thin, gray hair, the Writer Girl had fluffy, brown 
curls. And though a Serena should have worn round 
spectacles that rested on a severe aquiline nose, the 
Writer Girl had big, appealing gray eyes, and a nose 
that wanted to turn up. And while a Serena should 
have been elderly, and prim, with a touch of rheuma- 
tism in one shoulder, the Writer Girl was ridiculously, 
charmingly young. 

Four flights up climbed the Writer Girl, steadily, 
though breathlessly — for when one rests in the busi- 
ness of climbing stairs one makes no headway — four 
flights she struggled up before she reached the door 
that meant home to her. And it was with a sigh of 
relief that she walked in and sank down on the most 
comfortable chair. Then she opened the letter again. 
It ran something like this: 

"Miss Serena Perkins, 

My Dear Miss Perkins: — I want to thank you for 
the manuscript enclosed, but I am sorry that we will 



THE PUNISHMENT 159 

be unable to use it. At this time of the year we are 
overcrowded with material. 

Hoping that you will let us see more of your work, I 
am 

Sincerely, 
J. Harrison Graham 

{Dictated, and signed in his absence.) 

The Writer Girl read this over at least three times. 
Then she tore it into tiny bits, — so tiny that scarcely 
a single letter could be distinguished. 

"Dictated and signed in his absence," she murmured 
crossly, "hateful old man. He has written to me four 
times, and he always says the same thing! Some day 
Mr. J. Harrison Graham — " her short nose elevated a 
bit and she winked hard, "some day I will punish you — 
when I'm rich and own a paper that you want to edit. 
When you wait, begging for the position I shall keep the 
letter for three anxious, almost hopeful weeks and then 
I will write and say: 

My Dear Mr. Graham: — I am sorry to say that 
we are overcrowded just at present. Write to me 
again sometime. 

And I will put on the end: 

Serena Perkins 

{Dictated and signed in her absence.) 

Serena Perkins laughed, but the laugh was obviously 
forced. When the world is a disappointment and 
dreams are a delusion and a snare, it is not easy to 
laugh musically. Somehow it is easier to talk, so the 
Writer Girl began again. 

"I'm not happy," she declared to the four gaily 
papered walls, "I don't know a soul here — that I like 
— I don't want to write, I haven't any place to go to. 
I'm lonesome. Even a 'movie' with somebody's 
grandfather would be a relief. If something would 
happen, perhaps — " 



160 FRIENDS O' MINE 

Something happened. There was a loud bang and 
a smothered swear word from the room next door. 
Then a voice, — a man's voice, — called from behind 
the foot of thin plaster wall. 

"Say, next door," it yelled, "come here a minute. 
The bureau slipped and I busted my fmger." 

The Writer Girl jumped up and ran to the door. 
Convention held her back for a moment, but only for a 
moment. Then she hurried down the hall — hurried 
like an anxious little girl. Perhaps the man was badly 
hurt! Convention fell away and with a resolute hand 
she felt along the dark wall for the next door knob. 

The room the Writer Girl looked into was an attrac- 
tive one. It had an open fire, and bookshelves, and a 
low desk. But the girl did not notice the room. She 
looked past the desk and the fireplace to the man who 
was standing with his back to her. His hair was red 
and his shoulders were broad, and he was quite young. 
Rudely her observations were disturbed. 

"For Heaven's sake, it took you a long time," said 
the voice, and the Red Headed One swung around — 
"for — say, excuse me. I didn't know you were a girl." 

He was only a boy after all Serena decided, just a 
boy with a hurt fmger. She smiled at him and the 
smile was not forced. 

"That's all right," she answered briskly, "but what 
about the hand? I'm great at fingers — you see, back 
home I have two brothers who are always cut, or 
bruised, or broken. Let's see it." 

The boy held out his hand. "I've been feeling it," 
he told her, "it isn't smashed — only dislocated. If 
you don't mind holding it and pulling — perhaps it 
will go back again." He advanced the finger — a nice 
brown, strong finger with ink stains on it, and the girl, 
without a bit of hesitation grasped it in her own slender 
little white hand. A pull, a snap and it was back into 
place. 



THE PUNISHMENT 161 

"Now if you have a hankie — " the Serena Perkins 
in the Writer Girl finished briskly — "I'll fix it," and 
as the handkerchief, a clean, broad one, was held out 
to her, she wound it very tightly with practical, moth- 
erly fingers. 

"I don't know how to thank you," said the boy, 
"Miss — ?" he paused for a minute. "You've helped 
me more than you can understand. I write you know, 
and — " 

"Oh! but I can understand," broke in the Writer 
Girl, "you see I try at stories and — and things myself." 

The Red Headed One opened his eyes wide — very 
wide, and glared at her. 

"A kiddie like you," he scolded, "alone in the city, 
writing stories! Why child, how do you manage to 
live? Have you got a regular job?" 

The Writer Girl sighed while the Serena Perkins in 
her groaned. 

"Yes," she told him sadly. "I have work to do, in 
the day time. But I don't get paid much, and believe 
me it is a joW But at nights! At nights I sit down in 
front of a typewriter and I bang on it and put down my 
dreams and my thoughts and my life!" 

The boy was extremely interested. 

"Sit down," he told her with a red-headed bob tow- 
ard the largest, most comfortable chair. "Sit down 
and tell me all about it!" 

The girl sat down. Again convention plucked her 
guiltily by the sleeve, but again she threw it off. Had 
she not mended the damaged finger? And wasn't he 
just a boy — a nice boy with red hair and a kind heart, 
and an interested soul? 

"Where shall I begin?" she asked him. 

"Begin — " the boy hesitated a minute — "begin 
at the beginning and tell me why you left the farm to 
come to this God-forsaken hole." 

"It wasn't a farm," the Writer Girl told him seri- 



162 FRIENDS O' MINE 

oiisly. "It was a nice, quiet, little suburban town 
where everybody was deadly mad at somebody else* — 
and where the socially elect lived on one side of the 
railroad track. A little town that criticized a girl's 
morals if her feather was an inch too long or her skirt 
an inch too short. ... It was all right as long as dad 
was alive. Mother died when I was a little girl with 
my hair in a braid and socks — when the boys were 
babies. And dad — dad went two years ago. We 
got along for a year and then — I had to work. An 
aunt of mine took my brothers to live with her and 
they're pretty happy — so" She stopped abruptly 
and grinned, grinned hard with all of her will power. 

"The story of my life," she ended, "it's not very 
thrilling — is it? But it's your turn." She waited 
expectantly. 

The Red Headed One did not grin. Rather he 
sobered down and contemplated the bandaged finger 
with grave eyes. 

"Quite a story," he told her, without glancing in her 
direction. "You might as well go on, now that you've 
started." 

"There's very little more to tell," the Writer Girl 
explained. "I came to the city a year ago and got a 
position typing dry old records, and trials, and argu- 
ments for a musty old lawyer. I hate it, but then it 
buys dresses, and hats and sometimes a box of candy. 
And then I write. I've sold some poems, but never a 
story — yet. Perhaps — " her gray eyes met his 
frankly — "perhaps I will some day. But the best 
thing I've ever done came back tonight." 

"Poor child," the nice voice was full of sympathy. 
"I'm awfully sorry. I've had a pretty rotten time my- 
self — until lately. But then, you know, I'm a man! 
It seems to me that a man should have a hard time. 
But a kiddie like you — " 

The Writer Girl did not care to talk about herself 



THE PUNISHMENT 163 

in the role of a kiddie. Hurriedly, almost rudely, she 
broke in: 

"Your turn, your turn," she chanted like a naughty 
little girl. "Haven't you got a story to tell?" 

"Who hasn't got a story?" answered the man, catch- 
ing at her elfish mood. "Who hasn't? Shall I tell 
you all about the time when I was a little boy in the 
county farm, with nothing but a name to bless me; 
how I went to school and played hockey, and scraped 
up an education, and worked m.y way through college? 
How I left for the city with nobody but a few people 
who liked me, and my college chums, to think of me 
every few months. But that wouldn't interest you. 

"I'm working now, myself, and I like it. I meet 
men and women who are helping to build the world. 
I write, too, essays and editorials, and lots of stuff. 
And luckily, most of it is printed. You see, I'm for- 
tunate — rather." 

The girl was looking far away, although her misty 
eyes were fixed on the glowing fire. 

"You're not," she told him, "you're not fortunate 
one bit. I may work in a hot, stupid office, and I may 
be unsuccessful and stupid, too. But I've got memories. 
You can't remember a mother that rocked you to sleep 
and sang funny coon songs. And you can't see pictures 
of a father that you loved. You never had a family — 
to remember — but — " The brave little voice broke. 
And the Serena Perkins sternness fell away from the 
Writer Girl like a slippery opera cape. 

The Red Headed One put his hand out toward the 
curly brown hair — and jerked it back again. He 
opened his mouth to speak and shut it tight. He, 
silently, unhappily too, gazed into the fire that glowed 
and sparkled while the tear-drops hung gem-like from 
the Writer Girl's lashes. After awhile he spoke. 

"I'm sorry," he said softly, almost hke a penitent 
boy child. "I'm sorry that I've made you think if 



164 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

it hurt like that. Perhaps I understand even better 
than you can realize." 

The Writer Girl turned around. Her eyes were 
dry now, and full of tenderness. The mother in her 
wanted to comfort this orphan boy with his nice mouth 
and his lonely eyes. 

Smiling, she reached out a comforting little hand in 
his direction — a little hand that he took in his well 
fmgers and patted with his dislocated one. For a 
moment, unthinkingly, she let it stay there — then 
suddenly she jerked it away. Her pale cheeks were 
quite rosy red from excitement and — something 
else. For all at once she remembered. 

"Your finger," she exclaimed. "Your poor finger. 
You moved it just now. Doesn't it hurt?" 

The Red Headed Boy laughed softly and unrolled 
the tight handkerchief. Still laughing he stretched 
the finger in front of her and wiggled it. It was a 
perfectly good finger except for a few ink stains. 

"See," he chuckled, "all well." 

The Writer Girl's eyes bulged out of her head in a 
very babyish stare. For a moment she was tongue- 
tied, then — 

"Were you fooling me?" she gasped. "Fooling me 
all the time? But it did crack!" 

Instantly the Red Headed One sobered down. 

"Any finger will crack," he explained, "when it's 
pulled hard enough. . . . But I've got another story 
for you. Will you listen while I tell it? All of it?" 
And as she nodded her head, fascinated gaze on his 
face, he began: 

"I came here a week ago — one short week — and 
the first day I moved in I saw you coming up stairs. 
I was on the first floor then, so I moved up here. 
The next night I saw you again. You were tired, 
kiddie, and your eyes looked weepy. I — you prom- 
ised to listen — I wanted to take you in my arms 



THE PUNISHMENT 165 

and comfort you. You looked so little and forlorn, 
and lovable. I never liked girls before, but somehow 

— well, I couldn't help liking you. By the next day 
I was loving you and the next, and the next. But I 
didn't know how to meet you, or where, or — or any- 
thing, so I dislocated my fmger." He stopped, and 
then "are you angry?" he asked anxiously. "Please 
say something — ," for the Writer Girl had turned her 
head away and the tiny bit of cheek in his direction 
was crimson. But suddenly she looked around, and 
then waveringly, uncertainly, she smiled. 

"You know," she said softly. "I'm silly, or moon- 
struck, or I'm terribly romantic, but somehow," — 
her voice faltered, but the gray eyes met his steadily, 

— "somehow I feel as if I had known you always. 
And I like you, too!" Her lashes fluttered down and 
the rose color crept up over her forehead. 

With a half cry the Red Headed One started forward. 
He kissed her. 

Brightly, gleamingly, the fire spluttered and blinked 
in its surprise. 

Sometime later the Writer Girl raised her head 
from the broad, rough shoulder. 

"Boy, — " she wondered vaguely, "I don't even 
know your name?" 

"That's so," the Red Headed One laughed joyously. 
"I'll tell you now. It's Jimmy, but I sign my checks 
and articles and letters, 'J. Harrison Graham.'" 

The Writer Girl recoiled sharply from her very 
comfortable place. 

"J. Harrison Graham," she repeated in a dazed 
way, "but you're such a — a kid!" 

"I'm twenty-nine," grinned the man, "but what's 
up?" 

"Mr. Graham," exclaimed the Writer Girl haughtily, 
"do you know who I am? I am Serena Perkins!" 



166 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

"It's an awful name," agreed the Red Headed 
One without a gleam of understanding, "but we can 
change the last half. Cheer up!" 

"That's not it at all," raged the girl furiously. "I 
sent my stories to you and — you sent them back, 
four times! I was going to punish you, and now," 
her voice dropped to an awed whisper, "here I am 
marrying you instead!" 

"Perhaps that's a punishm.ent," laughed the Red 
Headed One softly. Suddenly he gathered her into 
his arms. "I think I'll kiss you again — if you don't 
mind," he said. 



A MEMORY 

My dearest, when dusk is falling, 

And the shadows creep on the floor, 
When my room is a lonely tower, 

In a desert of old-time lore; 
When I cry aloud to a likeness. 

That is hovering always near. 
Then my heart is lonely and broken — 

For I love you only, dear! 

When the sun is streaming in torrents, 

Along on life's beaten way; 
I forget for an instant only, 

That my heartache is near today. 
And I smile, but the smile brings toward me, 

A face that my mind must fear; 
And my mouth is sad, and my eyes are dim. 

For I love you always, dear. 

I feel your arms in the gloaming. 

And I feel your lips on my face; 
But I light my lamp, and the darkness flies, 

From a desolate lonely place. 
And all alone with a likeness. 

That brings to my eye the tear; 
I hold out my arms — to nothing. 

Ah! why did you leave me, dear! 



HER FATHER 

Where is the tiny little girl 

Who used to sit on my knee? 
That cried when she broke her dolly, 

And told her secrets to me? 
That dug all day in the sandbox, 

And, worn out after her play, 
Fell asleep with her head on my shoulder? 

Can it be she has gone away? 

As she grew in her youth and her beauty. 

And at last laid the toys aside, 
I was sorry, and yet there was something 

That seemed to add to my pride. 
For the house rang with music and laughter. 

And the voices of playmates gay; 
And I never thought of the morrow. 

Of the time she would go away! 

Yes, the wedding at last is over. 

And the thrown rice litters the floor; 
But I sigh as I think of the kiss she threw 

As she turned when she reached the door. 
How sweet she looked in her garments white. 

As her voice so happy and low 
Said good-by to me with the soft-lipped smile 

Of the baby of long ago! 



THE COURT FOOL 

The Jester sat at his monarch's feet, 

Ah! his smile was painted gay! 
And he talked with a biting, dreadful mirth, 

But his eyes gazed far away, 
And he rang his bells, and his tricks he played, 

For a motley, sneering throng. 
Beneath the paint — Ah! his cheeks were pale. 

But his voice rang out in song. 

(For a child, with his eyes, lay dying. 
On a bed that was racked with pain; 

And he knew that his wife was crying, 
And wishing him home again.) 

The court laughed out at his sallies. 

But the king swore an oath and frowned. 
As he glanced in scorn at the figure 

Who crouched on the friendless ground. 
And he spoke in a careless manner — 

"Thy songs and thy jokes are dead! 
Come fool, you must tell us something new 

If you value your life — your head!" 

(And his eyes were cruel and heartless, 
And his glance on his subject fell; 

But the fool cried out in a sobbing voice, 
"Sire, I've something new to tell.") 

"My baby at home lies moaning, 
As she tosses in fevered sleep. 



170 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

And her mother waits in the shadow 
Of death, and her sad prayers creep 

To God — But for every murmur 
And each of the prayers so true 

I laugh, I dance, and I froHc 
And make a poor jest for you! 

"Yes, I laugh though my heart is breaking 
And I joke though my eyes are dim, 

But God! how my soul is aching 
As I whisper my prayer to Him. 

"You ask me for something funny. 

But, Sire, I can only see 
A thin little hand that's waving 

A farewell to earth — to me. 
When you laugh I can hear her sobbing, 

A tear in her eye so blue, 
Ah! God — they must close forever. . . . 

But you ask me for something new!" 

He paused and the monarch whispered, 
With grief in his voice so wild, 

"Ah! fool, I would ask your pardon. 
Go back to your wife and child!" 



BY LOVE 

I OPENED the thin letter with the interesting hand- 
writing — opened it with a jerk. For my mail had 
not been exciting and my mind was a blank as far as 
copy was concerned. Then, as I read the words care- 
lessly, a wonderful idea jumped from the pages and 
took me by the hand. This is the idea: 

"I am sending you a few lines," read the letter, 
"about an object lesson I saw enacted one afternoon 
on the street, thinking that perhaps you might be 
able to use it in a story. 

"A young mother, nicely dressed, was standing in 
a store entrance, with a child some three years old. 
I noticed her slight agitation at the time, and passing 
again about ten minutes later, I saw her urging the 
small lad away, telling him that he 'must come.' 
The little fellow was hatless, and threw himself down 
on the pavement. His white stockings were smeared 
with the mud, and his face was streaked with tears. 

"As I passed down the street, I saw another little 
tot of about the same size, frolicking with his mother. 
As I watched the happy pair, I heard her say: 'Take 
mother's hand, darling; we must go now.' And after 
a moment's hesitation the child came. 

"I have thought much about it — the influence of 
the training of those two little lives — the one mother 
forcing her child; the other ruling by love." 

I told you that the idea reached out and took me 
by the hand. Don't you agree with me about its 
being a wonderful little idea — that people do not 
think enough about? 



172 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

I know of a tiny girl, whose mother is bringing her 
up in the right way. When the child, who has a 
rather unyielding disposition, is bad, she is given toys 
to quiet her. A few days ago the little girl grew angry 
about some trifle, and the mother, with a set face, 
handed her a toy, which she promptly threw across 
the room. With the expression of a figure carved in 
wood, the mother returned the toy to the naughty 
little fingers, which quickly, and with a nearly remark- 
able strength, broke it in two. It was then that the 
mother lost her patience. With the wooden expression 
completely lost from her face, she shook her small 
daughter — shook her hard. 

"You are a hateful child, Alice," she said. 

A few days later the mother went into the playroom 
where her daughter was entertaining a small guest. 
Pausing on the threshold, she waited to hear the baby 
conversation. And imagine her dismay when she 
heard her well-brought-up daughter calling the visitor 
names! 

After the usual period of meditation and prayer, 
she took the child on her knee and tried to reason with 
her: 

"Baby," she asked, "why did you call Louise 
names? Tell me!" 

To her surprise the little one answered, with the 
face of a cherub just down from heaven. 

"Why, muvver — you called me a 'hateful child.' 
Isn't dat right?" 

The one time that the mother lost her temper was 
the very time the child remembered. 

I met a girl not long ago — a girl with a beautiful 
face and an old family name and plenty of money. A 
girl who was very conventional and very good. Some- 
how we got talking about different girls that we knew: 

"I know a young lady — I can't call her a girl," 
said my companion, "who was once mighty nice. 



BY LOVE 173 

She went to school with me, and as she grew up tall 
and graceful and beautiful, I admired her a good deal. 
Then I went away to college and she lost her money. 
I did not hear much about her for some years, not 
until I came back to town. Then I found her a danc- 
ing teacher, with her wonderful, tall body in graceful 
draperies, and her wonderful beauty helped along by 
a make-up box. Sometimes I saw her name in the 
yellow newspapers." 

"Did she remember the old friendship?" I asked, 
tactlessly, perhaps. 

"Oh, yes!" responded the girl nonchalantly, "she 
did. But I couldn't! I have a reputation to keep up 
and a name to remember. I couldn't go out walking 
with her the way I used to, and I couldn't have her at 
my home. People might have seen us together — 
and talked. Perhaps my dropping her will make her 
reahze just what she is. Perhaps it will do her some 
good." 

"But," I asked, again tactlessly, "don't you feel a 
little — responsible?" 

The girl's big brown eyes opened very wide, and her 
happy, carefree laugh rang out. 

"Responsible?" she asked gaily. "I don't know 
exactly what you mean. I had nothing to do with 
her when she was becoming so — tough. I was away 
at college." 

I didn't say anything — but I thought. And as I 
thought, I saw the picture of a girl brought up in 
society, with no talents except a small stock of fancy 
dancing. I saw her painting her face and pencihng 
her eyebrows to look a part. I saw her going to a 
childhood's friend to renew an affection of happier 
days. And I saw the friend ignore an appeal in the 
eyes and shrug her pretty shoulders and talk of the 
weather. 

Perhaps it is best to let a girl know just how far 



174 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

down she has gone by dropping her. But perhaps if 
she is made to understand by a smile of comradeship 
and a friendly hand and a helping heart; perhaps if 
she is made to understand by love, she may turn around 
and walk up the steep hill of her own making. 

Often I think it's a funny world that buzzes around 
on its axis. A world that is full of strange people and 
strange customs and strange expressions. Two of the 
strangest expressions are "by force" and "by love." 
You saw how force worked with the baby boy — it 
brought out the stubbornness in his nature. You can 
imagine how force will work with the girl. You can 
see her looking for a friend that she cannot find, and 
keeping on, with many sad looks backward, along the 
down-going path. Somehow, force does not seem to 
get the desired results. 

The earth keeps on whirling around. Sometimes I 
think that tears have worn the furrows in it, and care 
has wrinkled up the mountains. But when the sun 
comes out at the close of a bitter day and smiles over 
the furrowed, wrinkled place, the whole becomes a 
scene of marvelous beauty. For God rules the world 
by love. 



HIS ANSWER 

I WEPT aloud to God who rules above, 
And groveled in my sorrow and my pain ; 
I told Him that I doubted of His love, 
And that the world was striving for its gain, 
I screamed, as bright the lightning cleft the sky, 
And called the Master of us all, unfair; 
I questioned loudly, asking reasons why 
I was unhappy in a world so rare. 
I prayed, and through the darkness shone a light, 
That crept around me softly as I lay — 
And to my soul there came a vision bright. 
That swept my troubled haunting fears away. 
Oh! Father how can I distrust Your care, 
When You have answered to my doubting prayer? 



GRATEFUL HEARTS 

The Pilgrims gathered their harvest in, 

And with heads bent low in their pain, 
They thanked the Lord by their humble board, 

For the fruit and the golden grain. 
They never spoke of the loved ones gone 

Or the ships that would come no more; 
And they never cried by the flowing tide. 

For the sun of their native shore. 

We buy with the gold of the toilers hands, 

And we sit at a table spread, 
With .damask fine, and with ruby wine, 

With meat and with dainty bread. 
But our eyes are cold with the frost of dread, 

And our prayer to the Lord is small, 
And we raise our eyes to the dreary skies 

That hang like a leaden pall. 

The Pilgrims lived and the Pilgrims died. 
With faith that could sing and pray; 

But the years have flown, and the people moan. 
Can this be Thanksgiving Day? 



DURING A SHOWER 

Have you ever been caught in a shower — a great 
splashing, furious shower, that blackened the sky, 
and sent a shivery, crying wind through the trees? 
But of course you have. 

One day last week I was walking down a street in 
New York to the subway station — a street rather 
notorious for its overdressed shop-girls, and underfed 
children, and loud men. A street lined with httle 
shops that peer furtively at the passer-by, and lure 
the innocent stranger in by a promise of gowns and 
hats at "very interesting prices." And as I walked 
along calmly with the eyes of an observer, the sky 
clouded over and the storm broke angrily above my 
head. 

I was too far from the subway station to make a 
dash for the dryness of my train, and the down-pour 
did not give me time to hesitate and think. I ducked, 
unceremoniously, under the very gay, very wet awning 
of a store — perhaps the largest on the block. 

Did you ever make a dash, suddenly, from one place 
to another? It takes away the breath, doesn't it, 
and chokes the eyes up, and makes you absolutely 
indifferent to anything but yourself? For one drip- 
ping, confused moment I was absolutely oblivious to 
my place of refuge, and then as the stray drops of 
water rolled from my skirt, I began to pay attention 
to my surroundings. 

I was standing between two show windows, hastily 
lighted to show up against the sudden blackness of 
the street. A white crepe de chine, moyen age gown 
on an impossibly smiling bisque model, gazed out at 



178 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

me like a Lorelei from behind the sheltering glass. 
As I gazed back, fascinated, a voice sounded at my 
elbow — a shy voice with a marked New York accent. 

"It's pretty, ain't it?" inquired the voice. 

I turned around to answer the speaker, and saw a 
little errand girl in a tight-fitting black skirt with shiny 
seams, and a very much bedraggled white shirt-waist. 
Imitation pearls hung from her thin neck, and a huge 
imitation ruby glowed on her fmger. Her head, with 
its elaborately trimmed, tawdry little hat, was inclined 
to one side, and her eyes, half closed, were gazing with 
the rapt look of an artist at the white dress. 

"I've always wanted one o' them," she confided, 
"an' this season I want one mor'n ever — they're so 
sweet!" She gave a half-humorous, half-sad little 
chuckle. "What's the use!" she asked me. "I've 
saved up again and again, and then, bing! the whole 
business goes up in smoke. Sometimes I lose my job, 
sometimes th' rent's due, sometimes th' baby sister's 
sick. Then it all ends up by buyin' a few yards of 
ten-cent stuff and tryin' to copy the pattern. It's 
no use!" She lapsed into discouraged silence. 

As she showed no further inclination to speak I 
glanced around, curiously, at the other refugees from 
the storm. There were quite a number of people 
crowded into the narrow space, and as I looked, I 
thought of the picture that Gibson or Flagg could 
make of it. There was a woman in a bunchy shawl, 
an Italian woman, from her hair and complexion, who 
murmured words in her own tongue and eyed the 
spattering rain-drops sullenly; there was a lady with 
dyed hair and a violet suit with stockings to match, 
who stood as far as possible from the street and dragged 
her cleverly draped skirt away from her silken ankles. 
There was a little newsboy, with eyes that might have 
belonged to a Raphael cherub, and clothes that might 
have come out of a rag bag; and three women with 



DURING A SHOWER 179 

very ornamental vanity cases, and too red cheeks, 
that talked loudly in a corner, glancing out at a slender 
man with drooping shoulders, heavy lashes, and a 
checked suit of English cut. There they stood, in the 
brightness of the doorway with the shifting wall of 
rain sweeping grayly in front of them. 

"I wonder," it was the wistful little errand girl's 
voice again, " I wonder if it's ever goin' to stop? Seems 
as if," she laughed, "it rains and pours every time I 
go out without a parasol — but when I have one, 
why, you couldn't scare up enough water to drink!" 

"It's the truth," I agreed thoughtfully. I remem- 
bered with a little wrath the time I had wasted carrying 
raincoats on sunshiny days. "I've done it bushels of 
times myself." 

The little newsboy slipped to the very tip edge of 
the dry space under the awning, and thrust out a 
small grimy hand. 

"It's still rainin'," he announced to the world at 
large, as he drew back into the dryness of the doorway 
and surveyed the wet, clean spots on the brownness of 
his skin, "an' if it keeps up it'll knock my business, 
the papers'll get all wet, an' I won't be able to sell 
'em." 

The lady with the violet suit and the dyed hair 
looked up, sharply, at the little ragged figure. Then 
she smiled and the smile made her painted lips seem 
very soft and sweet. 

"Here, kid," she said in a husky, but not exactly 
harsh, voice. She opened a silver-mounted purse 
stuffed with bills and extracted one of them. "Here, 
take this! I'll buy your papers." 

Over in the west the clouds were breaking up, and a 
tiny spot of brightness — perhaps from the dying sun 
— shone out faintly through the mistiness. The 
raindrops were small, now, and they did not beat so 
heavily upon the drenched pavement. Venturesome 



180 FRIENDS O' MINE 

folk, with gingerly held skirts, were skurrying along 
the street with furtive eyes on the still threatening 
sky. 

With a last look at the shimmering white dress, the 
little errand girl turned away from the window. 

"Good-by," she told me. A cheerful smile flickered 
across her plain httle face. "I'm glad the dress is on 
this street — I can see it every day goin' to work." 

The three women were talking loudly with the man 
in the English suit, and the violet-gowned lady had 
swept into the store with a backward glance at the 
hurrying errand girl. The newsboy, with tight clenched 
hand, darted away, and all at once I felt strangely 
isolated and alone and tired. I crept out from under 
the awning and ran through the softly falling drops — 
drops that were no more than a thin mist — toward 
the subway. And as I ran the setting sun, jewel-like, 
radiant, swept away the last cloud. 



THE WANDERING BOYS 

Ah! many an eye is dim with tears, 

And many a head is gray; 
And many there are who count the years 

Since their boys went far away. 

And many a prayer is breathed at night 

To the Father up above, 
For they ask him to guide the boys aright, 

Who have gone from their sheltered love. 

For a mother's heart is a mother's heart. 
Wherever the child may roam; 

And a mother's love will never part 
From the boy who has left his home. 



"LAUGH AND THE WORLD LAUGHS WITH 

YOU" 

I WENT to work with a heavy frown, 

And I went to play with a cry; 
And my wonder grew as the day wore through, 

At the people who passed me by. 
And I thought in my soul that the world was cold, 

And cruel to a saddened heart; 
And I wept aloud to a heedless crowd, 

That moved on its way — apart, 

I went to work with a tragic face. 

And I went to play with a groan. 
While the heat beat down from the Heaven's crown 

And the south wind echoed my moan. 
I stretched my arms to a careless throng. 

That brushed me out of the way, 
And my eyes were dim and my thoughts were grim, 

At the end of the weary day. 

I smoothed the lines from my troubled brow. 

And the hate from my weary mind, 
And I laughed away through the summer day, 

Till the sorrow was left behind. 
And the world went by with a friendly nod, 

And a smile that was full of love, 
And my face grew bright with a holy light, 

From the Father of all above. 



THANKSGIVING DAY 

When the Pilgrims had their harvest, 

And garnered the yellow grain ; 
When the fruits were piled under cover 

From the autumn's bUnding rain; 
When the graves were wreathed with flowers, 

And the game was laid away; 
Then they praised the Lord, who had blessed their hoard ; 

And they made Thanksgiving Day. 

They stood their guns behind the door, 

And they laid their knives in a heap; 
And they went unarmed through the close-cropped fields. 

Which their children had helped them reap. 
And they met the scowling tribesmen, 

In warpaint and feathers gay; 
And their war they ceased, while they made a feast, 

On the first Thanksgiving Day. 

The pies were baked in the ovens 

By the housewives young and old; 
And the meats were browned and roasted 

Away from the frosty cold. 
And the copper savage mingled 

With the Pilgrim old and gray; 
And they blessed the Lord by that humble board; 

Ah! it was Thanksgiving Day! 

Yes, we keep the day in a fashion; 

We eat our turkey and pie; 
But do we think of our brothers, 

Who starve in the cold — and die? 
Do we praise the Lord from our inmost hearts? 

Or do we only play 
At the love they taught, and the good they wrought, 

When they made Thanksgiving Day? 



"AN' YOU HA' SEEN WHAT I HA' SEEN" 

I AM sitting in my jerky office chair by the open 
window — a wide, friendly window that lets in a 
splash of yellow sunshine and a gentle little breeze. 
Just a little way below me, the elevated railroad goes 
thundering past — and below that the trolley cars 
clang along on bright tracks that stretch out, ribbon- 
like, through the city; and the automobiles whizz 
along and the motorcycles and the wagons. 

I am looking down from the fifth story, and I see 
many things, for I am pretending (do you ever pretend?) 
that this is my first glimpse of New York! 

Two small kiddies hurry past with bundles of over- 
coats piled high on their ragged little shoulders. They 
are sober-faced mites with cheeks that look pale — even 
from a fifth-story window. See — they are tramping 
down a narrow side street that is dark with the dirt 
of years — they are going to some sweat-shop. . . . 

Behind them walks a woman dressed in the latest 
style — from a much maligned Paris. A long feather 
curls downward from a tiny tip-tilted hat that rests 
on the top of one ear. Her four-inch heels beat a 
tattoo on the pavement, although I cannot hear it. 
Her entire costume is of a vivid shade, something 
between rose color and scarlet, and her cheeks are 
elaborately tinted to match the dress. She is in no hurry, 
and walks slowly, drinking in with a visible pleasure 
the many glances that are thrown in her direction. 

A sound of music comes down the street — growing 
stronger every instant — until finally the strains of 
"La Marseillaise" sound clear and triumphant. A 
picture flashes through my mind — a picture of war, 
of a bloody guillotine, of a dark prison and a rumbling 
death-cart; but the picture vanishes like a broken 
bubble when the band comes into sight — suave, 
placid, fat; dressed in red coats, with flower-decorated 



"AN' YOU HA' SEEN WHAT I HA' SEEN" 185 

buttonholes. They resemble war in the same way 
that a lazy cat resembles the roaring king of the forests. 

A man dashes around the corner and collides violently 
with a little schoolgirl. Her books fly out of her 
hands, but the man, with never a backward glance, 
dashes past. I lean out of the window in my excite- 
ment. Is the man a thief, a murderer, or an escaped 
lunatic? Is he being pursued by an army of trim blue- 
coated policemen? But no, the man jumps upon the 
platform of a trolley, and I realize that his reason for 
the haste was only a small one. Of course, another 
car would come in a minute, but New York is a city of 
hurrying people who hate to lose even a minute. 
Behind him, on the corner, the little schoolgirl pauses to 
gather her books together. I wonder if chivalry is dead? 

As if in answer to my unspoken question, a little old 
lady comes down the street. She cannot see well — 
it is shown in her hesitating walk and in the way she 
carries her Httle black-bonneted head. She pauses on 
the street corner — frightened by the noise and hurry 
that surges around her. A boy steps up — an awkward 
boy, who is painfully conscious of his hands and feet. 
He speaks to the little old lady, and then he leads her 
across to the other corner. And I answer myself: 
No, chivalry is not dead — even on Third Avenue. 

Two thin, bearded foreigners walk along together, 
talking earnestly. Their hands move in time to the 
words, and their heads bob up and down like corks 
upon an ocean of people. They hurry by, absorbed in 
each other, heedless of the people who step out of their 
way. And they are still gesticulating madly as they 
fade from my sight. 

Far down the street a crowd of people is coming out 
of the doorway of a dingy shop. It is too far off to 
see what is happening — too far off to distinguish the 
people. Perhaps it is a strike — strikes are always 
happening in New York — but the people are moving 
— just a tiny bit — and I can see that somebody is 



186 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

making a speech. He is evidently stopping now, for 
the crowd is disappearing very fast into side streets, 
and doorways, and cars. 

And so it goes on all day long. 

When I was a kiddie in school we used to sing a 
song called "London Bridge." The song went on to 
tell how some people walk slowly and some run; how 
the rich men in their chariots pass the poor men who 
are walking; how the velvets and satins brush elbows 
with the rags. 

It is like this in New York — from my window. 
Suffering and want walk stealthily along beside wealth 
and luxury; sorrow meets joy on every street corner. 

I have written this description to answer some 
questions that have been sent to me from my pen- 
and-ink friends. The first question was like this: 

"What are the New York people doing?" 

And the second asked: 

"Please tell us what you see on the streets of the 
city?" 

And the third, which was just a bit personal, said: 

"What do you do when you are not working, writing 
letters and articles?" 

I think that I have answered all three questions. 

When the sun shines low in the evening 

O'er the crest of a purple hill; 
When the flowers have shut their eyelids 

And the bird notes are hushed and still. 
Then the same old sun in the same old way 

Is gleaming with golden smile. 
And is asking the city to fold its hands 

And rest for a little while. 
But the city is rushing, heedless. 

To the end of a weary day; 
So the sun lies down with a twilight frown, 

And leaves it to go its way. 



THE POSTMAN 

He trudges along through the snow and the sleet. 

With a pack that is heavy to bear; 
The &lush of the roadway has hampered his feet 

And the whiteness has powdered his hair. 
But he stands by the gate with a smile on his face 

And his whistle is cheery and gay; 
Oh, people who live in a far-away place, 

Thank God for the postman to-day! 

He carries a message that comes from the heart 

Of a boy who has gone from his home, 
And sometimes a letter to make the tears start 

From a soul that is sad and alone. 
The news of a land that is far from our sight 

Is stored in his magical pack. 
And he mingles the sorrow with words of delight. 

For he carries a world on his back. 

Through city and country, through byway and street 

He comes to the home great and small; 
And we wait for his coming; he brings such a treat, 

A message of cheer to us all. 
And so in this season of harvest and joy. 

When the crops have been stored safe away, 
We raise to the heavens our humblest prayer, 

"Thank God for the postman to-day!" 



THE AFTERWARDS 

When I walk alone through the summer. 

In a garden of flowers bright, 
I shall not know that the morning 

Has banished the demon night. 
I shall call to you through a rainbow, 

Soft hued by the falling tear. 
For my heart will be lonely — broken, 

Oh! how I shall miss you, dear! 

When the light in my eyes is faded. 

And the smile on my lips grows dim. 
When my cheeks are sunken and hollow 

And I wait for a call from Him, 
When earth's pathway lies all behind me, 

And the heavenly home is near, 
Then I'll smile though my tears are falling. 

Because I will meet you, dear! 



AUTUMN'S CROWN 

The sky is blue, and the clouds are white, 

And the corn is a golden brown; 
And the scarlet leaves from the top-most bough 

Are fluttering softly down. 
And the purple grapes, and the apples gay. 

Are the autumn's brightest crown. 

The pumpkins yellow are piled in heaps, 

(Just ready for steaming pie) 
And the air is black with the flight of birds. 

As they hurry so swiftly by; 
And the turkey stalks in his tight-shut coop, 

For he does not want to die. 

The little boys and the little girls. 

Are whispering as they play. 
Their eyes are bright as they talk and laugh, 

For what do you think they say? 
"We'll eat no dinner at all to-night. 

For — to-morrow's Thanksgiving Day!" 



THE COMING OF "MARY CHRISTMAS" 

It was Christmas Eve, and the Rich Man was 
sitting alone in front of the fire, when the Poor Man 
breezed in. 

"Merry Christmas," said the Poor Man as he un- 
buttoned his overcoat, and looked around for a com- 
fortable chair, "how goes it?" 

"Oh, as usual," replied the Rich Man; "wheat has 
gone up, and cotton has gone down; the factories are 
closed for the holiday, and — " 

"For heaven's sake, man, keep still!" cried the Poor 
Man, "have you no sentiment? It's Christmas Eve, 
and to-morrow is going to be Christmas — Christmas! 
Do you know what that means?" 

"Yes," said the Rich Man, "it means tips to the 
servants, and elevator boys, and ofTice boys, and head 
waiters. It means a special gift to the orphan asylum; 
it means lots of begging letters in the mail and perhaps 
a Christmas card from a designing niece. Oh! yes, I 
know what Christmas means." 

"And when I came in I envied you!" said his friend, 
"yes, I envied you. You with your money and your 
big house, and your open fireplace (that was built to 
hang stockings at), and your servants, and — well, 
everything. Now I pity you! Why, my oldest girl 
is knitting me a necktie for Christmas, and my boy 
made me a chair, a morris chair, in school; and the 
baby bought me a woolly lamb with her own pennies. 
To-morrow we have a chicken for dinner — yes, I 
know that you will have a turkey: but you won't 
enjoy it, you can have all you want any time through 
the year — and the boy will have a leg, and the girl a 
wing, and the baby, yes, the baby will have the wish- 



THE COMING OF "MARY CHRISTMAS" 191 

bone; and my wife will decorate the table with holly. 
I am going to give my wife a box of chocolates and a 
five dollar bill. She'll give the candy to the kiddies, 
and she'll spend the five dollar bill on them, and she'll 
be happy doing it — well, I must be going — " 

And as the Rich Man drew a check-book from his 
pocket: 

"No, I don't take money from friends, even on 
Christmas." 

"But what can I do," said the Rich Man, "I want 
your girl to have a Paris doll, and the boy to have a 
watch, and the baby — " 

"But I bought the girl a doll," said the Poor Man. 
"It isn't very large or expensive, but it has beautiful 
blue eyes; and I got a watch for the boy. It cost a 
dollar, but it keeps good time, and my wife and I 
spent a dollar and five cents in the ten cent store for 
the baby's stockings. No, Mr. Rich Man, we don't 
need your money to have a merry Christmas." 

"But I should like to do something, something good," 
said the other. "What shall I do?" 

"You ask that?" said his friend. "What shall I 
do? Why, there are men and women starving in 
this city to-night. There are children who do not 
know what Christmas and Santa Claus mean. There 
are homeless babies freezing to death. And you ask 
what you can do! No, don't go riding down Fifth 
Avenue in your limousine and say, 'My friend was 
fooling me; I see no starving babies or freezing men.' 
Go down to the East Side, through the Ghetto and along 
the docks. And don't ride; walk. You'll see it!" 

The Poor Man rose to go. He shook the proffered 
hand and strode away. But at the door he turned. 

"Yes, I'm sorry for you," he said. "I'm going home 
to the wife and the kiddies, but you — you're going 
to stay here alone with your ghosts and your broken 
dreams." 



192 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

The Poor Man went out and the door slammed behind 
him. 

The Rich Man sat and stared into the flames, in 
front of the fireplace that was built to hang stockings 
at. 

The clock striking nine aroused the Rich Man. 
He stared about him for a moment and then left his 
cozy fireplace and went into the hall. His heavy fur- 
hned overcoat lay across a chair, and as one in a trance 
the Rich Man got into it and walked out of the house. 
It was a cold night, a black night outside. A bitter 
wind came whistling down the avenue as if it would 
tear the earth apart. The Rich Man wished for his 
limousine, but remembering his friend's admonition, 
he struck out instead for the nearest trolley line. 

Many people looked up as the aristocratic figure in 
broadcloth and fur entered the car, and he returned 
their glances with interest. A letter carrier with a 
tired face and an empty bag sat next to a cheerful-faced 
mother with dozens of badly tied packages in her arms. 
A young girl, pale but pretty, smiled as he looked at 
her, and he saw that a sprig of mistletoe was pinned 
to her shabby muff. A laborer snored in his corner, 
but a furry toy dog protruded from his bulging pocket; 
and a shame-faced but happy looking young man 
carried in his hand a large florist's box. Even the 
conductor had a piece of holly in his buttonhole, and 
the Rich Man, looking, felt rather ashamed of his lack 
of Christmas spirit. 

The Rich Man, after a moment's thought, got out 
at the next corner. A gaily gleaming restaurant with 
a glass front greeted him before the other stores. He 
stopped to watch a dextrous cook make butter cakes 
in the window. It was a novelty to him, for they did 
not do it that way in the days when he ate in such 
places. Soon he realized that he was not the only 



THE COMING OF "MARY CHRISTMAS" 193 

spectator. Three ragged, thin little newsboys, with 
red noses flattened against the glass, eyed the cook 
wistfully. And the Rich Man thought of the starving 
millions. 

"Boys," he said in a husky voice, "want some 
dinner?" 

The largest boy spoke up : 

"Aw! quit yer kiddin'!" he said, not rudely, but 
sadly. 

"But I mean it," said the Rich Man hurriedly; 
"come along," and with that, in he marched, followed 
by the most admiring train he ever possessed. How 
those boys ate; with a ravenous hunger that brought 
tears to the eyes. And when the Rich Man had given 
them each a handful of change, and had paid for their 
dinners, he felt the first real glow of happiness that 
had warmed his heart for years. 

The Rich Man walked on and on. Suddenly he 
was conscious of a stealthy but unpracticed hand in 
his pocket and he turned to confront a wretched 
looking woman in a thin, threadbare shawl. At any 
other time he would have called a policeman, but the 
Christmas spirit had softened his heart a little bit. 

"Why," said he, "are you doing this?" 

"Oh, Mister," said the woman, "we can't pay the 
rent, and they are going to turn us out," and she began 
to cry. 

"How much do you need?" he asked. 

"Six dollars," she whimpered in the midst of a sob. 

"And would you endanger your immortal soul for 
six dollars?" asked the Rich Man curiously. A flash 
of anger passed over the woman's face, making her 
almost pretty. 

"You," she cried, "you in your fine clothes and furs 
and heavy shoes, you can talk! What is six dollars 
to you? Six dollars is a lot to me. It means home!" 

Without a word the Rich Man pulled a bill from a 



194 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

fat roll in his pocket. It was a big bill with a yellow 
back. 

"Merry Christmas!" he said, and passed on, followed 
by her confused blessing. 

An old man was tottering down the street. His 
queerly fashioned coat was a style of many years ago 
and it still showed that the handiwork of an expert 
tailor had gone into its making. He wore no overcoat. 
The Rich Man went up to him and touched him on 
the shoulder. 

"I have a message for you," he said. 

"Me, suh?" The old gentleman straightened up. 

"Yes, you," said the Rich Man. "It's a message 
from Santa Glaus. He said for you to take this." 
He pressed some crumpled bills into the old hand, 
and before the man could say a word, had vanished 
into the thickening crowd. 

At last he turned into a dark alley that led between 
two buildings, and, though he did not know it, feet 
followed him, soft-shod feet that were as noiseless as 
an Indian's. As the Rich Man walked into the darkest 
part of the alley, something soft and heavy struck him 
upon the head, and as skilful, supple fingers removed 
his watch, scarfpin, and money, he drifted off into 
oblivion. 

It was not long after that the Rich Man unclosed 
his eyes and with a trembling hand felt his head. He 
was so dizzy, and yes, there was a large lump on his 
forehead. He lay still for a moment, and was not 
very much surprised to feel a tiny hand upon his face, 
and to hear a soft little voice say: 

"Poor man, poor man; did him hurt him's head?" 

"It's a dream," thought the Rich Man. "I had 
better get up," and with a great effort he struggled to 
his feet, upsetting as he did so a tiny, thin little girl. 

"Hello!" said the Rich Man thickly — he was still 
very dizzy — "where in time did you come from?" 



THE COMING OF "MARY CHRISTMAS" 195 

"I didn't," said the little girl, "I was here when you 
failed when the naughty man hitted you." 

The Rich Man's head began to get a little clearer. 

"Oh, yes," he said; "he hit me; also," as he felt in 
his pockets, "he took my watch and my stickpin, and 
my roll. Thank God he left me a little change," as 
he pulled out a couple of dollars in silver, "that will 
get me home — " 

He felt a tugging at his coat, and he looked down 
into a pair of great, round blue eyes. 

"Take me too," said a soft baby voice. 

"But, honey," the man took a cold little hand in 
his and noticed with a start that it was ungloved, 
"where is your mamma, and your papa?" 

"My papa wented long ago," said the sad baby 
voice; "he wented up to heaven. An' my mamma 
wented to stay with him yesterday, she tole me so. 
She said, 'Baby, God will take care of you,' but I can't 
find him nowhere." 

"And what is your name, little girl?" asked the 
Rich Man, with a sob in his voice. 

"Mary," said the tiny girl, "Mary after my mamma." 

"Mary," repeated the man, "and have you no other 
name? Mary — Mary — Mary what? " 

"Mary Christmas," said the Httle girl solemnly. 

"It is an omen," said the Rich Man, and with her 
hand in his they started uptown for the big waiting 
house. 

Christmas Day broke over the land. A cold snowy 
Christmas that promised wonderful coasting and 
sleighing. Again the Rich Man sat before his fire. 
But he was not alone. A tiny girl was sleeping in the 
room above, tangled curls framing a flushed baby face; 
and a fat stocking was hanging over the fireplace that 
was built to hang stockings at. 



A SONNET OF THE FIRST CHRISTMAS 

Frosty air with sheep bells ringing, 
Clearly through the velvet night; 
Far away the sound of singing, 

In the sky a gleam of light. 
Wise men, shepherds, softly praying. 

On the dusty stable floor, 
Words of hope their souls are saying 

As their kneeling hearts adore. 
Mother eyes with glances tender, 

On the tiny sleeping Child, 
Gold and jewels, a burst of splendor; 
For a Saviour meek and mild. 

Christmas Day, the bright beginning of a life of 

pain and loss. 
For behind the angel's singing lay the shadow of a 
cross! 



THE HOMELESS CHILDREN 

They cry with none to bless them, 

With no one to caress them. 
The night to them is dreary, and the day is not so fair; 

When you speak to them they quiver. 

As a frightened deer will shiver. 
When 'tis wounded by the hunter, and has crawled 
into its lair. 

Their faces drawn and haggard. 
Match their garments old and ragged, 
They talk of things the good Lord never meant a child 
to know; 
They swear with words that shame them. 
And yet — how can we blame them? 
Perhaps we have forgotten them, and that has made 
them so. 



ADVENTURE AND ACHIEVEMENT 

The book went down with a thump on the floor, 
red and gold cover staring brazenly up from the dark- 
colored hearth-rug; a small and pretty slipper kicked 
viciously out from beneath a frilly blue gown, and a 
determined fist beat fiercely on the arm of a heavy old 
chair. 

"Yes?" I questioned, as I laid down my own book, 
and raised my eyes sleepily in her direction. (I am 
always questioning Mollie.) 

"It's this book," Mollie snapped, gazing in the 
direction of the brazen red- and goldness. 

"And the book?" I again questioned. The book 
looked harmless enough to my dull and unsympathetic 
eyes. "What's the matter with the book? What 
book is it?" 

"It's a book I found up in one of the cases in your 
room," confessed Mollie. "I'm almost ashamed to 
tell you, it's such a kid book. But I rather like fairy 
tales and young stories. The name of this one is 
Adventures and Achievements. It sounds far-fetched, 
doesn't it? And it tells about thousands of things that 
people did — long ago. It's so impossible that I got 
mad. Most girls and boys aren't doing things like 
that now, so it stands to reason that they never did! 
I won't read any more. Come on up stairs and I will 
show you my new dress." 

We walked off slowly, arms entwined, but at the 
doorway I looked back over my shoulder. There on 
the hearth-rug lay the book, heartlessly neglected. 
And something in its blaze of color seemed to grin 
understandingly at me. 



ADVENTURE AND ACHIEVEMENT 199 

All the time they are happening — everywhere — 
adventures and achievements. Not only men are 
accomplishing things, either. Women share the laurels, 
and even girls. 

I saw a picture not long ago of a Miss Marie Cole — 
a girl who has done something in a field that is not 
only an unusual, but a surprising, department for 
women. She is by way of being a model farmer, for 
she raised 111 bushels of corn on one acre of land 
(doubling the amount raised by any farmer in the 
county), and becoming the champion of her part of 
Ohio. The photograph shows her standing at her 
plow, with open country stretching behind her, and 
the light of a future shining out of her eager eyes. 
She is the kind of girl who is not afraid to do a man's 
work, tilling the land, cultivating stony acres into 
something worth while, and raising a small fortune on 
a small place. 

The papers criticize the woman of wealth, telling of 
her extravagance and frivolity, of her insane clothing, 
and of her sudden whims. They criticize a life spent 
in the midst of a whirl of bridge, balls, luncheons, and 
in the dance. And yet this fall, a society leader — a 
woman with everything that money could buy — 
threw aside all of her worldly pleasures and comforts 
that she might go as a missionary to the Moros, a 
vicious, brutal tribe in the Philippines. The woman 
was Mrs. Lorillard Spencer, and despite the pleading 
of her family and the demands of society, she sailed 
away in search of adventures and achievements. 

I was reading the paper a few days ago, when my 
eyes fell on a rather insignificant item, crowded into 
the corner of a sheet. I read the little clipping with 
interest, and finished it with misty eyes. The story 
was simple, with a simplicity that was nearly heart- 
breaking. It told of one of the hard-luck stories that 
the sheltered do not believe, and that the dwellers in 
a city see every day. 



200 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

A young couple had come over from Europe — from 
Sweden, or Hungary, or Poland, or some other country, 
I forget which. They knew no English, and had very 
little money. The husband was unable to fmd work 
and the cost of living was high. Then the baby came, 
a baby who brought no joy, only another mouth to feed 
and another burden to carry. The small amount of 
money melted away, and still the man had no work. 
He saw his wife and child starving before his eyes, 
and with set teeth he broke the eighth commandment. 
He stole things — little things that the world had seen 
fit to keep from him. He was by nature honest. He 
was caught and arrested, tried for petty larceny, and 
put in prison for six months. The law never thought 
of the wife and child with no support, strangers in a 
strange land. The man worked out his sentence and 
was brought up to the courtroom. He was charged 
with the stealing of other things, and his term was 
going to be prolonged, when the door opened and the 
haggard ghost of a woman walked in, a baby clasped 
to her breast. In a weak voice she told her story to 
the interpreter. She had walked nearly ten miles to 
the courthouse, and she had no money for carfare. 
Friends had given her five cents, but baby had not eaten 
for two days. She spent the money for milk. She 
was tired and she had no home. Finally she broke 
down and fainted. 

The judge thought for a moment, and in the silence 
the blind woman who typifies Justice rattled her scales. 
The judge dismissed the case and found work for the 
man. 

The woman did not get a great deal of notice. She 
got a moment's applause from a court of law, and a 
tiny notice in the papers. But her name was put down 
in blazing letters on heaven's book of achievements! 

You must never throw aside the red-and-gold book 
of heroes and heroines because you don't believe. 



ADVENTURE AND ACHIEVEMENT 201 

Don't feel jealous of the men and women who did 
something long ago. Above all, don't think that you 
are living in an age of deathlike quiet and no excite- 
ment. Read the papers sometimes, and the books; 
use your imagination if necessary, and look around you 
with eyes that see. And if you read carefully, look 
about very hard, you will see and you will believe that 
we are living in a place as vari-colored and wonderful 
as the pages of a book, luminously colored in red and 
gold. 

Hero faces, proud and glowing, 

Laurel wreaths that tell of fame, 
Trumpet calls that speak the glory. 

Of a grand, triumphant name. 
Do we have them now, the brave ones? 

Yes, they come with fine heads bowed. 
Boys and girls who say things, do things. 

Hero faces, glowing, proud. 



THE ANGEL'S MESSAGE 

In the fields the flocks were sleeping, 

White as snow; 
Through the town the night was creeping 
Far below; 
And the shepherds, ever faithful 

To their charges dumb, 

Waited in the cold and darkness 

For the dawn to come. 

When above them shone a glory 

Soft and bright, 
And they heard an angel's story 
Through the night. 
" Peace on earth," it was his greeting, 
"Peace to men, and do not grieve. 
For your Lord is sent among you 
On this blessed eve." 

Then he left, but in his footstep 

Glowed a star; 
And the wise men saw and followed 
From afar. 
To a stable cold and dreary 

Safe it led their faltering way, 
For within the Christ was lying 

In a manger filled with hay. 

And the shepherds and the wise men 

Did adore. 
While they knelt in silent rapture 
On the floor. 
For their Lord had come among them 

To redeem the world from sin. 
Shall we not, too, on His birthday, 

Cleanse our hearts and let him in? 



DREAMS, IS IT? 

Dreams, is it? Child, don't ye know what they are? 

Night winds that creep o'er the moor from afar — 

All of the swateness that grows in the flowers, 

All of the gold in the sunshiny hours, 

Shure, they're the rainbows that gleam after showers. 

Have ye not had them at all, little one? 
Where have ye lived since the world was begun? 
Haven't ye ever seen dew of a mornin'? 
Bright on the grasses, the fairy feet scornin' — 
Larger than di'monds some beauty adornin'? 

Haven't ye dreampt when th' shadows were creepin', 
Over the land where th' folk were a-sleepin' 
Sound till the call of th' silver-voiced lark? 
When on th' meadow the fireflies spark, 
Cuts like a knife through th' velvet-soft dark? 

Haven't ye ever seen clouds in th' sky? 
Haven't ye watched them go flutterin' by? 
Haven't ye ever seen blue bells in spring? 
Haven't ye ever heard bees as they sing? 
Haven't ye ever seen birds on th' wing? 

Little one, little one, babe that ye are! 

Some day perhaps there will come from afar 

Someone whose voice on yer heart-strings will grow, 

Tellin' a story first told long ago. 

Dreams, is it? Shure, child, 'tis then ye will know. 



THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT 

The Spirit of Christmas stood sadly on the street 
corner. Of course, the corner was cold, and the wind 
was bitter, but spirits don't usually mind such minor 
details — in fact, they revel in disagreeable weather. 
Still, the Christmas Spirit wept, and would not be 
comforted. 

A woman hurried past with short, mincing steps, head 
held high, neck fur-covered, hands thrust into a deep, 
orchid-decorated muff. Behind her, on a shining 
chain, a tiny dog trotted, blanketed, perfumed, self- 
satisfied. On the curb stood two little children, 
pinched and wan with hunger and cold. 

Quickly the Spirit of Christmas stepped up to the 
woman. Tear-drops stood in his eyes and his voice 
held the wail of the wind in it. 

"Stop!" he told her, and his frosty hand rested on 
her sleeve. "It's the week before Christmas — the 
Lord's birthday. You have everything that money can 
buy, and these children have nothing — nothing at all." 

Steadily the woman walked on. Perhaps her head 
was held too high to meet the tear-filled eyes. Perhaps 
she thought that she was buffeting against the wind 
instead of a pleading hand. 

The Spirit of Christmas glanced at the children. 
They looked steadily, if vacantly, back. They did 
not even see him. Blindly he turned away from the 
icy corner. 

Wandering around on a winter day is cold business, 
and so presently the Christmas Spirit walked through 
a crowded doorway into one of the large department 
stores. 

"Here," he thought, "I shall be at home." For 
counters were decked with holly and the massive arches 
flaunted knots of red ribbon. Quickly he moved near 
the counter and spoke to one of the clerks, a slender girl, 
who was vainly trying to wait on six people at once. 



THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT 205 

"Look at me," he whispered, and his tear-stained face 
brightened up a bit. "Look at me and listen to my 
words. I am the spirit of joy, of light, of Christmas!" 

Blindly the girl raised her tired eyes and brushed a 
thin hand across her white lips. 

"It's cold here," she confided to the woman at her 
side. " I felt a wind just now. And I'm tired and sick." 

With a stifled cry the Spirit of Christmas turned 
and went past the angry, impatient crowd; past the 
flaming bows of ribbon and the cheerful holly; past 
the swinging, gaily colored doors, into the street. 

And there, alone in the gathering darkness, he gave 
way to an agony of disappointment and sorrow, until 
at last he was weary and exhausted with his grief. 
After a time he gathered his robe more tightly about 
him and walked away in the direction of the mansions 
uptown. 

The house he stopped in front of was an imposing 
structure of white stone and brick. Golden lights 
streamed from a score of windows and the glow of an 
open fire wavered on the velvet curtains. Slowly the 
Spirit of Christmas climbed the steps with weary feet, 
and passed through the tightly bolted door. 

He found himself in a wonderfully furnished room, 
filled with rich paintings and costly hangings. A 
beautiful woman sat in front of the fireplace and a 
man stood by her side looking down at her. She was 
speaking: 

"The children," she told him, "must have everything 
that they want. And they want everything." 

Hurriedly the Spirit of Christmas thrust himself in 
front of her. 

"Of course," he spoke as though to the woman, 
"they must have what they want. Candy, perhaps, 
and a doll or two — " But the woman was still 
speaking. 

"I need at least two thousand dollars," she told the 
man. 



206 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

"Then the charities must go!" The man's voice 
was firm. "We can't afford both this year." 

Wearily the woman shrugged her beautiful shoulders. 

"Bother the charities!" she murmured. "Helen 
must have ermine furs and Reginald wants — oh, ever 
so many things." 

With a little shudder the Spirit of Christmas slipped 
from the room. 

It was dark; black, dull, impenetrable darkness, and 
the Spirit of Christmas walked on and on, now slowly, 
now fast. And he talked to himself as he went his way. 

"No one knows me," he soliloquized sadly. "No 
one cares! Is there a Christmas? Or has every one 
forgotten?" 

He was in a poor part of the town now — a part of 
the town that was dingy, and not very clean, and badly 
lighted. Tenements lined the sidewalks. He stepped 
into the meanest one, and crept up many flights of 
stairs to a barren little room under the eaves. 

The place was very neat, even if it was bare. There 
was a small table with a candle, a mattress of hay, and 
a rickety chair with an old woman sitting in it. She 
was small and white-haired, and her eyes were dim 
with age; but her cold fmgers were deftly fashioning 
a tiny mitten. 

The Spirit of Christmas stepped up to her, the tears 
coursing down his face. 

"It's the week before Christmas," he said sadly. 
"I am the Spirit of Joy and Light." 

Happily the woman raised her head. 

"I know it," she told him. "I knew that you'd 
come. You always do about this time of year. I 
can't celebrate much, but, praise God, I can make 
mittens for the children. I'm glad you've come." 

Quickly the Spirit of Christmas smiled, and as the 
radiance crept over his face, the tear-drops vanished. 

Far off in the eastern sky appeared a tiny spot of 
light. It was the promise of a star. 



THE ANSWER 
On hearing the assertion that romance is dead 

•*Ah, Romance is dead," the maiden said. 

As she braided her golden hair; 
Yet her eyes were bright and her step was light. 

And oh ! she was very fair. 
Then with hurrying feet she went to meet, 

In the light of the sunset red, 
A man with a love like heaven above; 

Yet she said that Romance was dead. 

"For Romance is dead," the mother said. 

As she stitched on a tiny gown; 
And she seemed to sigh as she wondered why, 

And tried to suppress a frown. 
Yet her baby's kiss she could not miss. 

As she bent o'er a little bed; 
And a baby's smile warmed her heart the while, 

Yet she thought that Romance was dead. 

"Can Romance be dead?" the small girl said, 

As she closed her book with a sigh; 
And she dreamed away through the summer day. 

As the ladies and knights passed by. 
Other children played, and most of them strayed 

Down a little path that led 
To a foaming brook and a fairy nook; 

So how could Romance be dead? 

A lady strolled through a garden cold, 

Where the blossoms were withered dry. 
Where the snowy blast came fme and fast 

'Neath a sad and leaden sky. 
She was bent of limb and her eyes were dim. 

Yet she lifted her silver head; 
And she cried to her Lord, "I thank thee, God, 

That Romance is never dead!" 



MY DOLLIE 

"I PLAY I'm my dollie's own mother, 

And I rock her and put her to bed; 

And I wash her face clean every morning, 

And tie ribbon bows on her head. 

And when she falls down on the sidewalk, 

I play that she's all black and blue; 

And I kiss her dear face in my own kissing place, 

'Cause that's what a mother would do." 

"If she ever gets hungry, poor baby, 

I give her a supper of cake, 

(Of course she can't eat it, not really 

But she does in the games that I make). 

And when she is naughty and fretful, 

I look in her eyes' deepest blue, 

And I whisper, 'my dear,' in her tiny pink ear, 

'Cause that's what a mother would do." 



GOOD INTENTIONS 

A FEW Sundays ago I went to evening service in a 
large, luxurious and softly-lighted church. As I sat 
in a velvet-cushioned pew I heard a dignified, eloquent 
man preach a very wonderful sermon. I was breath- 
less, almost, until the end, and then I heard him speak 
of a boy who had strayed away from the narrow path. 
"He meant well," said the minister fiercely. "He 
meant well! He kept saying that he was going to 
reform, that his intentions were good — but hell is 
paved with good intentions!" 

Abruptly, startlingly, his sermon came to an end, 
and I went out into the darkness of the night — wonder- 
ing. 

I have heard the old proverb a great many times: 
"Hell is paved with good intentions," and each time 
something surges up in my heart that says: "It is 
not true! It can't be true!" For I think that some- 
where up on high there is an angel who sits, judgment 
book in hand, and writes down every good intention 
in letters of gold. 

I knew a woman who had only one son — a son who 
was the veritable apple of her eye. She idolized 
everything he did, from his first lisping sentence to his 
graduating essay. Somehow, this boy, with every 
chance, every advantage in the world, met a wild class 
of young men and fell into evil ways. The little 
mother, who was suffering from an incurable disease, 
did not know that her son was doing wrong, until one 
evening he arrived at the house intoxicated. After 
that she grew rapidly worse, and one night he came 



210 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

home from a party and found her dying. Weak and 
trembhng with remorse, he knelt at her bedside, and 
she stroked his short, curly hair. 

"My boy," she said, "I am dying. I want you to 
tell me, now, that you will stop drinking." 

"I will," said the boy with a sob, and he kissed her 
slender hand reverently. A few hours later she passed 
away. 

Now, this youth had the best intentions in the 
world. He read his Bible, he prayed, and he kept 
away from his old haunts. But finally the lure of the 
evil life got him again. One night he met some friends 
who persuaded him to come to a quiet little supper, 
and before he knew it he was back where he had started 
from. It was cowardly, contemptible, mean, to break 
his word, particularly his sacred promise to his mother. 
There was no excuse for him, and I am offering none. 
But — his mother died with a smile on her face and 
peace in her heart, because his intentions were good. 
Perhaps there is one mark against his name that is a 
little lighter — a little less gloomy on that account. 

Did you ever know any one who was continually 
saying the wrong thing to you — who had an unhappy 
faculty for being tactless — and did you ever say of 
her in excuse: "Well, she meant well"? It is, some- 
how, ever so much easier to forgive an interference 
when you know that, after all, there is a kind heart 
behind the action. 

While I was in school, I happened to know a very 
irresponsible girl. She was always the first to grasp 
eagerly at an excuse for some escapade — always the 
one who led in cutting classes, going to parties, and 
refusing to study. One day our favorite teacher called 
her to task. 

"Ehzabeth," she said sternly, "you are coming to 
this school and getting absolutely nothing out of it. 
You idle away your time and you joke in classes and 



GOOD INTENTIONS 211 

never study. You don't want us to be ashamed of 
you, do you, dear?" 

"No." Elizabeth was nearly crying. "I don't!" 

"Well," the teacher went on firmly, "I want you to 
promise me that you will be better. Won't you try?" 

Impulsively, Elizabeth threw her arms about her 
teacher. 

"I'll be good," she promised affectionately, "for 
your sake." And she walked away — a trifle sobered. 

All this time I had been a rather interested listener. 
Now I interposed. 

"Will she be better?" I asked. "Does she really 
mean everything that she says?" 

The teacher sighed. 

"She means everything that she promises," was 
her halting reply. "But by to-morrow evening she 
will be doing the same things." 

"Then she breaks her promises?" I asked again. 

"Yes — and no," said the teacher. "She doesn't 
mean to; but she forgets. Her intentions are the 
best, and somehow, for that reason, I can't help being 
patient with her." 

I was walking through a country town one hot 
summer day — plodding along through the thick dust 
of the path — when I came to a stretch of road that 
was smooth and hard and dustless — an ideal road for 
motoring or walking. Stooping to examine it, I saw 
that it was made of hard bits of rock pounded into the 
dust and clay of the original sod. It was very different 
from most of the roads in that section. 

"How does it happen," I asked a man who was with 
me, "that this road is so good? What is it made out 
of?" 

"I'll tell you," he said. "This road is made out of 
pieces of stone that were originally meant for side- 
walks. The stones that were chipped and cracked and 
broken were crushed and sprinkled on this road. Then 



212 FRIENDS O' MINE 

a steam roller was put over it and — well, you see the 
result. It's the best road in the county!" 

Friends of mine, I don't want you to be promise- 
breakers. I assuredly do want you to have good 
intentions, but not to break them. It is cowardly and 
hardly honest to yourself, as well as to others. But 
I want you to remember this: Good intentions, when 
broken, are like the cracked and fractured flagstones. 
They may be almost worthless, they may never be 
what they were intended for; yet pounded up finely 
and packed down with new resolutions and kept with 
all the determination you can summon, supplemented 
with divine help, which you can have if you will only 
ask for it, they will make a road that is smooth and 
firm and wonderful — the road to heaven. 



THE TERROR OF THE SEA 

We build our ship with a frame of steel, 

And we look at our work with pride; 
And with timbers fme from the mountain pine. 

We challenge the wind and tide. 
We gild the stern and we paint the bow, 

And we polish the slanting keel; 
And we lift our gaze to a people's praise, 

And glow with the strength we feel. 

We launch our ship with the noise of drums, 

And the sound of a trumpet's blare; 
And the waves seem small on the sides so tall. 

And little enough to dare. 
We call the crowd to our cabins wide. 

And we say with a note of scorn — 
"The ocean grim — we have conquered him, 

With the greatest of all ships born!" 

The thunder rolls and the lightning darts. 

In the midst of the stormy wave, 
And the timbers rock from the awful shock, 

With never a thing to save. 
And we pray to God that His mighty mind. 

May hark to our fevered plea; 
And the women groan and the children moan 

At the strength of the angry sea. 

L' Envoi 
We build our ship with a frame of steel, 

And we point to our work with pride; 
And we question why, as we sob and cry, 

It sank in the heavy tide! 



WAITING FOR SANTY 

I've hung up my Christmas stocking, 

Has you got a stocking, too? 
An' kitty an' me is waiting 

An' wondering what we'll do 
If a fat little man wif a funny face 

Comes down in our chimney flue. 

An' I'm listening here in the corner 
Wif my ear to the bricks pressed tight, 

An' only a candle is burning, 
Wif a thin little baby hght; 

An' don't you know that I'm frightened? 
For it's awfully late at night! 

My kitty is getting sleepy, 

She doesn't know Santy's name; 

We've never waited before this year. 
An' I think that we're so to blame; 

'Cause while I was sleeping in my bed, 
Was the onliest time he came. 

What'll we do to Santy 

When he jumps on the fire mat? 
We'll say "hello" in the nicest way. 

That a kiddie can — an' a cat. 
An' we'll smother his face wif kisses; 

Now what will he fink o' that? 



THE SAILOR'S MOTHER 

Her dim eyes gaze through the window wide, 

O'er the broad St. Lawrence foam, 
And her sad thoughts bide with the wind and tide, 

Near the boy who is far from home. 
And the tiny boat that he loved to sail 

Lies close to her wrinkled hand; 
And her pleadings rise to the angry skies — 

That her son may come safe to land. 

For a mother's heart is an anguished heart, 

When the billows are rough and white; 
When the north winds start like a poisoned dart, 

And the clouds have shut out the light, 
And she prays to the Lord of the stormy sea 

That safe in His gentle hand 
He will bring her son — her dearest one — 

To the safe untroubled land. 



THE SLEEPING PRINCESS 

When I was a round-eyed, tight pig-tailed, but withal 
very romantic little girl, I loved to read fairy tales. I 
would sit by the hour on the floor or curled up in a big, 
soft chair, with a red spot glowing on each cheek and 
pulses that quickened as the prince slew his dragon or 
found his princess. 

Now that I am a grown-up, no longer chubby, less 
round-eyed, with the tight pig-tails made loose and 
done up high, I still love fairy tales. Perhaps when I 
am caught reading them I feel a bit foolish and undig- 
nified; but the phrase "once upon a time" still brings 
a glad feeling to my heart. 

The Sleeping Beauty story always fascinated me 
more than any other. My very young but sentimental 
soul used to be deeply stirred with pity and fear and 
delight as I read the adventures of the beautiful girl 
who slept for a hundred years, until the kiss of her 
prince came to wake her. Now, as I read over the 
very familiar plot, I wonder at the depth of poetic 
fancy and charming allegory displayed in it. For the 
story is, to me, an allegory. 

There are a great many sleeping princesses in this 
world of ours. Some of them are beauties; others are 
decidedly plain. But they are all waiting for the thing 
that is going to wake them some day — that must 
wake them. Sometimes it is the kiss of a prince that 
uncloses the eyeUds; very often something else answers 
the purpose. 

I once knew a girl who was called talented in her 
small way. Some folks called her an artist and some 



THE SLEEPING PRINCESS 217 

praised her to the skies; but a few critics — men who 
knew things — said: "Her work is good, but soulless. 
She lacks something." 

The girl was rich, happy, sheltered from every kind 
of hardship or pain. She had never worried over a 
more tragic thing than the hang of a skirt. She had 
never cried herself to sleep. And her work was good 
and pretty. Critics saw it and looked and turned away. 

Then, one day, as quickly as a clap of thunder, one 
of her loved ones died. It was the first real sorrow she 
had ever known and it gripped at her heart-strings. 
Wherever she turned, a loving face looked at her and 
lonely hands stretched out wistfully. To forget — 
and to remember — she worked; and when the critics 
saw her work, they smiled, and then they said soberly: 
"She has found herself. Her soul is in her work." 

So sorrow awakened one sleeping princess. 

I know another girl — know her well. In fact, I 
think that I have known her ever since I can remember. 
Once upon a time she was a sleeping princess, too. 

I remember how we used to go to parties together 
when we were just leaving grammar school. Boys 
would flock about the other girls, but they always 
ignored my little friend as she sat, bashful and speech- 
less, in the darkest, loneliest corner. I felt sorry for her, 
yet I could do nothing to make her enjoy herself. She 
blushed when she was spoken to, and could think of 
nothing to answer; she fingered the edges of her sash 
and looked off into the distance when she was supposed 
to be interested; in fact, she was painfully shy and 
painfully self-conscious. 

I lost track of the girl for a little while, and then, 
one day, I met her unexpectedly at the commencement 
exercises of a large college, surrounded by a merry group 
of boys and girls, laughing, talking, dimpling with pleas- 
ure. I tried to remember her as the disconsolate, lonely, 
shy little friend of my school days, but somehow I 



218 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

failed utterly. It wasn't the same girl — it was a dif- 
ferent one. As I stood looking at her, a dignified little 
lady, the wife of a professor, came and stood beside me. 

"Betty is the most popular girl I know," she told me. 
"Everybody likes her. It isn't because she's pretty, 
or entertaining; I don't know just what it is. But 
somehow, she seems to radiate laughter and happiness." 

Later I saw Betty herself. Enthusiastically she 
hugged me and told me how wonderful it was to be 
together again, like old times. 

"Not old times, dear," I corrected. "Do you re- 
member how quiet and shy you used to be? What 
made the change?" 

My friend was silent for a moment, forehead prettily 
puckered, head bowed in thought. 

"I remember," she said at last. "I was a little 
stick, wasn't I? And I changed this way: One night I 
went to a supper party in another town and met a 
strange girl there — a girl from the city. She was 
a very unattractive-looking girl — her clothes weren't a 
bit prettier than mine, and yet people quarreled for a 
chance to be near her. I studied her carefully, and I 
learned her secret. 

"When any one talked to her she looked as if that 
one were the only other person in the room. Her face 
expressed the interest she felt in the conversation. 
When the hostess asked her to do a thing she never had 
to tease. The girl was willing to do anything to amuse 
the company. When a girl far down on the other side 
of the room looked at her, she always sent a quick, 
flashing smile down the length of the table, and other 
people smiled with her. Somehow, I have forgotten the 
girl's name, but I owe her a debt of gratitude. I went 
home that evening a different person. I reahzed that 
I had been asleep before, and as I woke up I began to 
know that the secret of having a good time was interest." 

So another princess unclosed her eyes. 



THE SLEEPING PRINCESS 219 

Everywhere though there are sleeping beauties. 
Some of them may never wake up; some may have 
their names cast in bronze. Some of them may die, 
still only half-awakened, with the words " It might have 
been" on their Hps. Others may walk triumphantly 
through a hall of fame. 

Sometimes it is joy that wakes the sleeping princess 
from her long nap. Sometimes it is sorrow, sometimes 
love. But, friends of mine, remember this: Sometimes 
it is a tiny thing that uncloses the tight-shut eyes. Per- 
haps your hand in friendship, or a kind word dropped at 
the right time, or a smile that is full of sunshine, may 
make a fairy tale come true. 



BE BRAVE! 

When the world is a gloomy shadow, 

And the skies are a sullen gray, 
When the wind weeps low in the branches, 

And the people forget to pray; 
When the last fond hope has been broken, 

By a force that is cold and grim; 
Then take your place with a cheerful face. 

And smile — though your eyes are dim I 

When the sun creeps under a cloud bank. 

And the rivers are black and dry; 
When you steal away in the silence 

To cover your head, and cry; 
When the owl calls from the forest, 

With a note that is sad and drear. 
Then raise your eyes to the darkened skies, 

And smile — through the misty tear. 

When your dearest friend has neglected 

To cheer you on in life's way. 
Forget that the earth is empty 

And think of another day. 
When the skies will be blue and golden, 

And the sun will be Heaven's door. 
For there's always love from the God above. 

When you smile though your heart is sore. 



THE BABY'S SMILE 

There, in a manger filled with hay, 
A tiny Baby sleeping lay; 
A smile was on his little face. 
And, though it was a common place, 
A throng had crowded up the space, 
To worship and to pray. 

The mother, pale and wan and weak, 
In rapture far too great to speak. 
Could see no conqueror, no king, 
Only a tiny baby thing. 
Who stilled his cries to hear her sing 
In accent soft and meek. 

And yet, behind the baby eyes 

There dawned a soul to rule the skies. 

The wise men hurried from afar. 
The shepherds saw a gleaming bar 
Of light. And in the midnight sky. 
Above the mountain grim and high. 
An angel whisper fluttered by: 
"Follow the Star — the Star!" 

Deep in a manger lay the child, 

The winter night was cold and wild. 

The cattle clamored in the shade, 

The lambs were crouching where they played, 

And yet the baby, unafraid. 

Turned in his sleep, and smiled. 

Oh, bitter years of pain and loss! 
Behind the smile there stood a cross! 



FOLLOWING THE STAR 

The camels traveled wearily over the desert places, 
following the star, and the shepherds came in from 
the hills as they hurried in the wake of a heavenly light. 
For it led to a manger, and a Holy Child. And there 
in the dimness of the stable they knelt and thanked 
God; wise men and fools, rich men and poor. . . . 
Christmas Day dawned over the land, and angel songs 
broke the stillness of a perfect peace. 

Sweetly, peacefully a star gleams in the sky of our 
life. Some call it Ambition, some call it Faith, some 
call it Peace. But some call it Love. 

Shall I tell you the story of a star? 

Long, long ago there lived a man in a strange and 
foreign country. He was a queer man, a silent man, 
an unhappy man who dwelt by himself in a little 
white house on the outskirts of a deep wood. No- 
body loved him, for nobody knew him; but folk re- 
spected him, for they said that he had much money 
stored away in plump canvas sacks. 

The man did have money, money that he loved 
more than anything else, money that he could not 
dream of spending. Deep in the darkness of the can- 
vas bags it lay away — worthless, unused. 

There buried from the rest of the world the man 
forgot the length of days and weeks and months. 
And so it came about that he awoke one cold winter 
night and wondered in his soul why a blinding radi- 
ance filled the room. Stealthily he crept to the win- 
dow and peered out, and there, in the dark of the sky, 
he saw a star shining. And as he looked he heard a 
voice say softly: 

"I am the Star of Light — follow me! Too long 
have you worshiped the gleam of your gold." 

So the man arose, and gathering together his miser's 



FOLLOWING THE STAR 223 

wealth, he followed the gleaming sign. And the star 
led him out of the woods and into the town — the poor, 
unhappy, squalid little town. 

All night long the man wandered through evil- 
smelling, dingy streets, and always at the murmur 
of the gentle voice he left money from his store; to 
orphans and widows, and to friendless, discouraged 
men, and always as his golden wealth diminished the 
light of the star grew. 

Finally the gold was all spent and the miser turned 
his steps toward the house of a man of God who dwelt 
near by. And when he stood before the benevolent 
old eyes he told his story. 

"My gold is gone," he said, "the pride of my life! 
I have given it to the poor who have nothing. And 
I am happy — happy for the first time in many years." 

The man of God started very slightly, but a radiant 
smile shone in his eyes. 

"Why," he asked in his kind voice, "why did you 
do this thing?" 

Eagerly the man pointed to the heavens. 

"See," he cried, "the Star! It was the star that 
told me what to do — that guided me, that helped me 
over the path." 

But this hstener was smiling softly, incredulously. 

"Man," he said slowly, "the sky is dark! It was 
your soul that guided you." 

And the one-time miser knew deep in his brain that 
the holy man was right. For the brightest star of life 
is in the soul. 

So he went back to his house in the woods; and he 
opened his heart to the people; and he taught them — 
and loved them. And all his life the golden glory of 
happiness never left him. 

Shall I tell of another star? 

A girl was going Christmas shopping in one of the 
largest, most expensive stores in the city. She was 
going to buy a diamond pin for her sister (who had 



224 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

many diamond pins) and a set of books for her brother, 
and dozens of expensive trifles for her friends. But 
as she stepped from her car at the door she almost fell 
over a tiny ragged little boy who stood sobbing on the 
pavement. 

"What is the matter?" asked the girl solicitously as 
she bent over the child. She was not acquainted with 
grief. 

Mournfully the little boy gazed at her. 

"Huh!" he muttered, "don't you know? It's 
nearly Christmas, an' there ain't no presents an' no 
Santy Glaus, an' no nothin'. Th' ain't even a tree!" 

This gave the girl something solid to think about. 
She thought for several days — thought hard. 

Sister never saw the diamond pin on Christmas morn- 
ing (she did not really miss it), and brother never knew 
that he would have had a set of books. Many friends 
received one less present out of their over-abundance. 
But down in a narrow, crooked part of the city there 
were Christmas dinners, and presents, and "Santy 
Clauses," where there had never before been any joy 
or gladness. And many hearts blessed a young lady 
who had followed her star. 

Christmas time is here, with bracing winter weather, 
and happiness and good feeling. Holly is made into 
wreaths, and the Yule log is blazing in the open fire- 
place. Pine trees, straight and green and proud, are 
brought in from the forest, decked with tinsel, and 
colored balls, and glittering angels. Mistletoe, a glory 
of white berries and green leaves, hangs temptingly in 
the corners. Christmas is here! 

But while the crowds are dancing on joyous feet, 
and while the carols are ringing out on the frosty air, 
perhaps there is a baby dying — a baby with the eyes 
of the Christ Child. 

The star is waiting to lead iis as it waited for the 
wise men and the shepherds. It is entreating us to 
help. For some people call it the star of Love. 



WINTER'S JEWEL CASE 

The holly berries ruby red upon the heavy branches. 
The mistletoe like gleaming pearls that grow beneath 
the sea, 
The evergreen like emerald that is swaying softly — 
softly; 
The sky with turquoise shining for a million eyes to 
see. 
The topaz sun in morning that is glowing, oh, so gently, 
On the ragged little children in the city's whirr and 
hum. 
And the tears that fringe their lashes are the diamonds 
held so priceless. 
As they wait by empty stockings for their Santa 
Glaus to come. 

The starlight faintly golden as it slants above the 
housetops, 
The silver of the snow-fall in the moonlight's mellow 
glow; 
The opalescent windows where the fairy frost has lin- 
gered 
In a lace work of the heavens that is seldom found 
below. 
Oh! the dirty copper dullness of the cold and cheerless 
houses. 
It is not a proper setting for the precious stones we 
love, 
For the diamonds bright are frozen on the pallid cheeks 
of children 
As their prayers go creeping softly to the Father up 
above. 



FORGIVEN 

If you came back tonight, with arms stretched toward 

me. 
With laughing Hps and carefree, smiling eyes. 
With graceful step and lightly carried shoulders, 
With all the air of youth that never dies: 
If you came back tonight, I would forgive you, 
And rub the heavy bruises from my heart; 
I would forget the troubled soul you gave me, 
And all the tears that you have caused to start. 
If you came back tonight, I would be waiting, 
And smiling, though my wounded heart were numb, 
If you came back, with arms stretched out before you. 
And told me, soft, that you were glad to come! 



THE EVE 0' CHRISTMAS 

The Girl Child crept along the floor like a little gray- 
ghost in the thickness of the twilight, and pulled aside 
the heavy curtains that stood as a soft but impene- 
trable barrier between her solemn eyes and the equally 
solemn outside world. With a sigh she flattened her 
small nose against the hardness of the window pane 
and looked down longingly at the hurry of the city 
streets. 

"It's so full of things — and people," she solilo- 
quized. 

Behind her the shadows of the softly carpeted room 
rose darkly, emptily, to embrace her. The Girl Child 
gave a lonely little half sob, and turned her eyes away 
from the gayness of the pathway outside. 

"Mother's gone out," she sing-songed in a little tune- 
less chant. "An' father's not home yet, an' Annie's 
Christmas shopping, an' the cook's down stairs, an' — 
an' my coat an' hat are here, an' the door's open," 
she finished triumphantly. 

Noiselessly the Girl Child's feet crept over the thick 
carpet. Softly she slipped into her little velvet coat 
and hood. With mittened hands that fumbled at the 
stiffness of the lock she turned the door knob and tip- 
toed, mouse-quietly, out into the street. Behind her 
lay the still house — death-like in its dark quietness, 
before her the city swept, a gleam of golden lights and 
fluttering snowflakes, and swiftly moving forms that 
melted into the gathering gloom. 

A young woman hurried by the little figure, and 
glanced down for a brief moment at the serious face 
that the Girl Child turned toward her. 



228 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

"Whither away, little lady?" she questioned gayly, 
"Are you looking for a winter rainbow's end, or for 
Santa's work shop?" 

Vainly the Girl Child tried to put the object of her 
search in plain speech. 

"I came out," she explained gravely with a compre- 
hensive wave of her mittened hand, "to see the crowds, 
and the lights — " 

"You're too young for the lure of the city, little 
girl!" laughed the graceful figure at her side. Gayly 
she shook a bit of mistletoe from her crowded arms into 
the small hands that stretched out to meet her. "Run 
home to mother, and kiss her under the white berries, 
and tell her that you're sorry you came out alone — " 
and she swept on, and was lost in the swirling snow 
flakes. 

But the Girl Child clutched the mistletoe tight in 
her small hand and trudged on. She was not afraid of 
being lost, for in front of her, a short block away, 
stretched the park where she walked with Annie in the 
afternoons. Softly she crept along, and folk — sub- 
merged in the hurry of Christmas eve, passed her by 
with never a glance. 

The park was a tiny one with a narrow line of trees 
that stood, like starved little soldiers, against the 
swirling snow. Narrow, cold-looking iron benches 
stood wraith-like, along the small paths, and drifts 
piled high in every corner. The Girl Child scanned 
the bare little place with something of disappointment 
in her glance. For it was empty — empty except for 
a stout, red-looking man in one corner, and a huddled 
woman with a bunchy shawl in the other — a woman 
who seemed to have something soft and small in her 
arms. 

The Girl Child was not drawn to strange men, es- 
pecially strange men with red faces. One day she had 
seen just such a man reeling down the street with a 



THE EVE O' CHRISTMAS 229 

boisterous laugh and a string of words that Annie had 
slapped her hands for repeating. With gentle feet she 
hurried past him and paused in front of the woman. 
Boldly she spoke. 

"How do you do?" she asked poHtely. "How are 
you?" 

The Huddled Woman gave a great start. Then her 
face settled back into its expression of hopeless, helpless 
calm. 

"Hello," she said. Her eyes — great dull black 
eyes, gazed past the Girl Child, past the swirling 
flakes, past the heavy sky — "What the — " 

"You're going to ask me what I'm doing here, aren't 
you," interposed the Girl Child hurriedly. Being a 
friendly little soul she seated herself on the bench be- 
side the woman. "I'm out for a walk, I am. Do you 
mind if I sit by you? It's going to be snowy tomorrow, 
isn't it? Don't you love a snowy Christmas?" 

Fiercely the woman interrupted her — 

"Christmas, Christmas — ther' ain't no such thing," 
she almost snarled. "Damn Christmas!" 

"That's a naughty word," interposed the Girl Child 
seriously, "Annie — she's my nurse — she slapped my 
hands once for saying it. You mustn't — " 

Her voice suddenly stopped in mid-air for the bunchy 
shawl that the woman held in her arms squirmed just 
a little, and a tiny fretful cry rose from it. 

"Oh-h," she breathed eagerly, "oh-h, what have 
you got? Is it a baby, a little baby?" 

The Huddled Woman lifted the bundle to a more 
comfortable position, and as the Girl Child raised her 
eyes, she saw that a tear hung on the heavy black 
lashes that drooped over the white cheeks above her. 
The woman raised a shaking left hand and wiped the 
tear away. 

"What are you crying for?" the Girl Child wondered 
in her almost impertinent little sing-song, and then 



230 FRIENDS 0' MINE 

suddenly she saw the meaning, "Oh — " she murmured 
sympathetically. Her mittened hand reached out to 
pat the cold fingers that clutched the bundle — "Oh, 
I'm so sorry! You're crying 'cause you lost your 
wedding ring — aren't you? Mother cried once when 
she lost hers, but she found it again in the little tray 
on father's bureau. P'raps you'll find yours." 

The soft bundle needed all of the woman's attention. 
With eyes strangely brilliant she bent over the shawl, 
and dragged it away from a small pink face. The Girl 
Child started up. 

"What a beautiful baby!" she screamed in glee, 
"isn't it lovely? See its dear little mouth, and its 
black, black eyes, and its darling fuzzy head. Don't 
you love it?" 

The baby whimpered at the hard face above it, and 
as the Girl Child waited for her answer the woman 
turned on her with lips curved in a smile that was very 
bitter. 

"Love her," she snapped, ''my little girl — " her 
voice was keen as the wind that beat the snow into 
drifts, "love her? I hate her." 

"Oh!" the Girl Child gasped, then she laughed un- 
easily, "but of course you're fooling. You couldn't 
hate — a baby! Everybody loves their babies; why, 
my mother loved me — bushels. Of course you're 
fooling!" 

"Fooling," the woman turned on her sharply, "fool- 
ing! What do you know about fooling — you brat 
with your velvet coat, and your nurse, and your talk 
of wedding rings! What do you know of loving or 
hating?" her voice broke over the word. "Why can't 
I hate my own kid? God knows I didn't want it!" 

The Girl Child started to her feet in fright, then 
something in the figure before her made her pause. 

"I'm sorry I made you cross," she gulped, "awful 
sorry — I didn't know that you felt bad — " Her fas- 



THE EVE 0' CHRISTMAS 231 

cinated eyes dwelt on the face before her. "You look," 
she breathed, "like a picture my mother showed to me, 
only your eyes are diff'rent, and your dress. It was 
called a ma — madonna." 

The Huddled Woman stared wildly at the Girl Child 
for a moment, and then suddenly, unexplainably, she 
began to cry with long gasping sobs. The bundle 
whimpered as if in sympathy. 

"Oh, God— "she sobbed, "oh! God— God— God— " 

The Girl Child slipped down on the bench. Sooth- 
ingly her voice spoke. "Don't you cry," she said, 
"it's a very nice baby. Maybe you're disappointed 
'cause it's got dark eyes 'stead of blue — but it's very 
nice. . . . What's its name?" 

Blindly the woman groped for the little comforting 
hand. "It hasn't got any name," she sobbed, "it — 
hasn't — got — any — name!" 

The Girl Child held the hand tightly, and patted it. 
Gravely she considered for a moment. 

"My mother," she told the Huddled Woman, "has 
a pretty name, I think. It's Noel — that means 
Christmas." 

"Christmas," the woman murmured, and somehow 
the tears had washed the hardness from her eyes, "why 
tomorrow's Christmas!" 

"Yes!" the Girl Child sprang to her feet, the com- 
forting forgotten, " I almost forgot that tonight's Christ- 
mas eve; and mother'll be home, an' father; and there's 
my stocking to be hung up," the small feet began to 
run in the snow. "Don't you cry," she flung back over 
her shoulder, "it's a nice baby — " 

"Little Girl," the Huddled Woman was calling fran- 
tically, "little girl, just a minute — You'll tell me your 
name?" 

The Girl Child hesitated. Across her face a smile 
swept. 

"My mother was so glad to have me," she called 



232 - FRIENDS 0' MINE 

back softly, "that she had me christened Theodora. 
That means 'Gift of God' — you know." The swirl- 
ing snow hid her little running form from sight. 

The Huddled Woman looked at the strangely empty 
place beside her. There lay a bit of mistletoe that the 
small mittened hand had dropped. With a sharp in- 
take of breath she swept the shawl from her baby's face. 

"Gift of God," she murmured, and then fiercely, 
almost, she held the tiny bundle to her breast and 
kissed the downy head, the dear mouth, the eyes so 
like her own. "My Gift of God," she cried. 

The snowflakes fell softly to the white ground. Over 
in the eastern sky a radiant star hung in the darkness. 



MY WORLD 

The sun doth shine amid the fleecy clouds, 

And when the sun to rest has gone away. 
The moon doth rise and cast aside her shrouds. 

And makes the sky again as bright as day. 
The stars glow faintly in the heavens dark, 

And when the dawn has come they softly die; 
And then again the sun doth greet the lark, 

And wakes the earth unto its fevered cry. 
And so the days shp on with joy and woe, 

I care not for their happiness or pain: 
Thy face is near me everywhere I go, 

I see thee in the sunshine and the rain. 
Ah, while the sun and moon shall shine above, 
Thy face shall be my star, my world thy love. 



THE END 

Life, Death, and Love once stood beside a field, 
Where men had fought with sword, and gun, and 
shield. 
And as they stood Life spoke with bated breath 
And said, "I wonder when the foes will yield?" 

Then Death with hollow eyes looked at the men 
Who gasping lay about his feet, and then — 

"I think," he said, "when all the world is drenched 
In blood, the strife will finish — only then!" 

But Love looked far away with tear-filled eyes. 
"My friends," he said, "beyond the sun there lies 

A land where flowers bloom with perfume sweet, 
Where no one suffers pain, and no one dies. 

"And in this country at the rainbow's end 
There lives a King who is a Helper, Friend; 
Who pardons sin and washes guilt away. 
And when men know his love, the war will end." 



A CHRISTMAS SONG 

Mistletoe and holly berries, 

Shining skies and frosty air, 
Yule logs blazing on the hearthstone, 

Folk without a heavy care. 
Sleigh bells ringing in the meadow, 

As they cut across the snow; 
Christmas joy and hearts triumphant 

Holly wreaths and mistletoe. 

Anxious prayers and stockings tiny, 

Hanging in the cold of day. 
Sleigh bells ringing on the pathway, 

Sounding mighty far away. 
Nothing very nice for eating; 

(Can it be that no one cares 
For the small, forgotten children?) 

Stockings thin and tiny prayers. 

Shining star and angel voices. 

Singing in the early dawn. 
Telling to the waiting people 

That the Lord of all is born. 
Sighs and tears and happy murmurs. 

Through the ages travel far. 
Ah! there is a God above us! 

Angel song and shining star. 



L'ENVOI 

Dust against the sinking sun — 
Has the day been lost or won? 
Were the tasks too great to bear, 
Was the worry, wear and tear 
Just too much for you to meet? 
Did you fmd the toiUng sweet — 
Has the day been lost or won? 
Dust against the sinking sun. 

Mist against the rising moon. 
Has the evening come too soon? 
Do you fmd the night so still 
That the shadows seem to chill? 
Do you greet the darkness long 
With a sob — or with a song? 
Has the evening come too soon? 
Mist against the rising moon. 



